Full text of "Canadian railroader"

See other formats

Canadian F

the a
its m

ive F
with

Kil

WRA

SHIP

VOLUME X
NUMBER 4

1926

[[■nnimmmm

, (

—

HO years
of quality —

MOLSON’S Brewery is the oldest
in Canada, and the second oldest
on the North American continent.

Since its establishment in 1786
Molson’s Brewery has been noted
for the standard of quality main-
tained in brewing fine Ale.

And after 140 years, Molson’s Ale
is still the most popular bottled
Ale sold in Montreal.

MOLSON’S

ALE

Famous for Purity & Flavor

December, 1926: V ol. X., No. 4

Canadian Railroader , Montreal

ALGOMA

STRUCTURAL STEEL

Merchant Bars • Blooms
Billets and Slabs • Skelp

CONCRETE REINFORCING BARS

Sulphate of Ammonia

STEEL RAILS - Open Hearth Quality

SPLICE BARS - STEEL TIE PLATES
LIGHT RAILS— 12 to 45 lbs. - ALLOY
STEEL BARS - BILLETS & SLABS

Chrome: Chrome-Vanadium: Chrome-Nickel: Nickel

PIG IRON

Basic Foundry Malleable Spiegel

ALGOMA STEEL CORPORATION

LIMITED

SAULT STE. MARIE

ONTARIO
District Offices:

Montreal - - - - 606 McGill Building

Toronto - 1003 Northern Ontario Building
Vancouver - - - - Yorkshire Bulling

Canadian Railroader , Montreal

December, 1926: Vol. X., No. 4

Hr WO streams start from the same
* source, but find their outlet a
thousand miles apart.

Your life may flow into the troubled
ocean of debt, or into the placid waters
of independence.

Your Bank Book will decide.

S600M

The Royal Bank
of Canada

us*c

SHOL MACHINERY SHOE SUPPLIES

SHOE REPAIRING MACHINERY

United Shoe Machinery Co. of Canada Ltd

MONTREAL

TORONTO KITCHENER QULEtC

T. B. LITTLE SS

FINE PAPERS

A complete range and large stock
enable us to give unequalled service

MONTREAL Tel. Lan. 4205*

HIGH GRADE BITUMINOUS COALS

STEAM -GAS SMOKELESS DOMESTIC —SMITHING

HAVMAR LINCOLN SHALLMAR

HIGH VOLATILE SMITHING LOW VOLATILE

W. A. MARSHALL & CO. OF CANADA, LIMITED

190 St. James Street,

MONTREAL, QUE.

62 Richmond Street, West

TORONTO, ONT.

SPECIALIZING IN CENTRAL PENNSYLVANIA
AND NORTHERN WEST VIRGINIA COALS

ALSO AT NEW YORK — PHILADELPHIA — JOHNSTOWN — MORGANTOWN — CLEVELAND

EVANS & REID COAL CO. LTD. - - CARDIFF & LONDON

December, 1926: Vol. X., No. 4

Canadian Railroader , Montreal

RICHARD L. RAKER iCO.

LIMITED

MILL SELLING AGENTS
MANUFACTURERS & IMPORTERS

Gloves, Hosiery and Underwear

84 WELLINGTON STREET W., TORONTO

Telephones: Adelaide 506-7

International Malleable
Iron Company
Limited

GUELPH, ONTARIO

' '• 'i . *

COGHLIN

Springs

■

l \ Tw

\A-

and

Track Tools

i. :

a a.

ALL TYPES— FOR EVERY PURPOSE

Manufacturers of Springs since 1869

•/COGHLIN«>

MONTREAL

TORONTO. Harvard Turnbull V Co. WINNIPEG. Pilar-Smith Machinery Co.. Limited

J. R. BOOTH

LIMITED

MANUFACTURERS

IB IB

LUMBER, LATH AND SHINGLES, NEWSPRINT
PAPER, PULP SULPHATE AND CARDBOARD

11 11

Ottawa, Canada

And BURLINGTON, VT.

Canadian Railroader , Montreal

December , 1926: Vol. X, No. 4

High School Boards

and

Boards of Education

are authorized by law to establish

Industrial, Technical and

Art Schools

With the Approval of the
Minister of Education

Day and Evening Classes

may be conducted in accordance with the
regulations issued by the Department of
Education.

Theoretical and Practical
Instruction

is given in various trades. The schools
and classes are under the direction of AN
ADVISORY COMMITTEE.

Application for attendance should be
made to the Principal of the school.

Commercial Subjects, Manual Training,
Household Science and Agriculture and
Horticulture

are provided for in the Courses of Study
in Public, Separate, Continuation and
High Schools, Collegiate Institutes, and
Vocational Schools and Departments.

Copies of the Regulations issued by the De-
partment of Education may be obtained
from the Deputy Minister of Education,
Parliament Buildings, Toronto.

For Bread and Pastry

Sold Everywhere

TheST.LAWRENCEFLOUR
MILLS CO., LIMITED

MONTREAL

Murphy Brushing
Lacquer

For architectural enamel work
and interior decorating, for
furniture, tools, toys — for a
multitude of purposes, Murphy
Brushing Lacquer is ideal. It
dries in less than half an hour
— anyone can apply it with fine
results.

MURPHY VARNISH COMPANY

of Canada, Limited

305 MANUFACTURERS STREET
MONTREAL

(. Formerly the Dougall Varnish Co.)

December, 1926: Po/. X., No. 4

Canadian Railroader , Montreal

O.V. BRAND

PURE WOOL
PRODUCTS

DEPENDABLE WOOLENS

Outstanding Value

Underwear, Knitted Coats
Blankets, Rugs
Knitted Outerwear
Knitting Yarns
Paper Makers’ Felts

100% PURE WOOL

Made by

BATES & INNES Limited

CARLETON PLACE, ONTARIO

CONCRETE

Homes are
Permanent
and Fire-Safe

Home-builders want these two impor-
tant features in their homes and are
assured of them if they build with con-
crete, either stucco or as stucco applied
to concrete blocks.

Besides being permanent and fire-safe,
concrete homes are easily heated in the
winter and are pleasantly cool in the
summer.

Concrete is readily and economically
adaptable to any type of architectural
treatment. It is also ideal for founda-
tions, steps, walks, pedestals and sim-
ilar structures.

Write us for literature

Canada Cement Company Limited

Canada Cement Company Building
Phillips Square Montreal

Sales Offices at

MONTREAL TORONTO WINNIPEG CALGARY

I CAN ADA CEMENT

CONCRETE

rOW PERMANENCE

CANADIAN RAILROADER

(lliis iflaiutstnc

PlRPMPN^wiTrHM 1 ™ 4 I? n ( d A d N a ^' AN RAILROADMEN who are engineers, conductors,
FIREMEN, SWITCHMEN AND BRAKEMEN, MAINTENANCE OF WAY MEN AND TELEGRAPHERS

It also circulates amongst practically all leading Railroad Officers, as well as amongst those in many other walks of life
TWENTY-FIVE CENTS A COPY ONE DOLLAR A YEAR

jJJuhlishcb (Quarterly by

CANADIAN RAILROADER LIMITED

316 LAGAUCHETIERE STREET W„ MONTREAL, CANADA

TELEPHONES: MAIN 7165, 7166, 7167 (PRIVATE EXCHANGE)

J. A. WOODWARD

President

KENNEDY CRONE, Editor

Hgse*i7

LOIS I. STEPHENSON
Assistant Editor

VOL. X

DECEMBER, NINETEEN HUNDRED AND TWENTY-SIX

NO. 4

Interpreting Christmas

NE swallow doesn’t make a summer, they say, neither does one snow-
flake constitute a winter. Nevertheless, the earliest, tiniest flake,
drifting down through leaden skies, has power to conjure up a picture
of Christmas and all its homely joys which yet may be weeks away.
The long grey street is momently transformed into a magic path lined with
shops, aglow with tinsel and evergreen and softly shaded lights, while hosts of
people, laden with mysterious looking bundles, hurry in and out of the
doorways.

And speaking of bundles, what a delight there is in visiting the various
stores and choosing some modest little remembrance for a loved one, near
or far away, though we may consider the loved one worthy of something far
more costly! True, at this season of the year one often parts with hard-earned
dollars which have been hoarded for a very different purpose — urgent personal
needs, perhaps.

But there is something about the spirit of Christmas which, of necessity,
manifests itself in giving — giving to the ones near and dear to us, for they are a
part of ourselves and it rejoices us to see them happy; giving to those far away,
thereby spanning the leagues of miles with a whole chain of kindly thoughts
which revive old friendships; giving to the folks blessed with less of this world’s
goods than ourselves— the sad-eyed ones whose steps have begun to lag in the
race; the lonely ones whom the world passes by and forgets — these bespeak

our remembrance at Yuletide. . . ,

It is one of the beautiful characteristics of the season of peace and
goodwill that every kindly thought, every generous impulse, which at other

— - Continued on next page

Canadian Railroader , Montreal

December, 1926: Vol X., No. 4

times may be stifled for one reason or another, is then allowed to blossom
into some lovely deed which interprets the message of the Nativity. Perhaps,
more sentiment enshrouds Christmas than any other festival of the year. It
means much to us because it meant much to our parents and to their parents
before them. The bells which peal out their glad tidings on the Creat Birth-
day make the heart throb, possibly as much with a realization of what the Day
has meant in years gone by as of what it will mean as time advances. As
Longfellow sang: —

I heard the bells on Christmas Day
Their old, familiar carols play,

And wild and sweet
The words repeat,

Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And thought how, as the day had come,

The belfries of all Christendom
Had rolled along
The unbroken song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

Amid the feasting and the gift giving and the merry-making let us have
a thought for the Day’s sacredness which is the foundation of it all. Let us
remember to lift our eyes to the heavens where the message of twenty centuries
ago may still be read by those with eyes to see it.

Above our heads, from out the clear, deep sky,

The stars look down

As when of old their mellow radiance shone
O’er Bethlehem’s town.

The midnight bells peal out with solemn tone
From every tower,

Bidding the world with gladness to await
The promised hour.

0 lonely heart! look up with faith renewed;

Thy Lord is here;

For now the anthem of the heavenly host
Breaks on the ear.

Lift up each voice to greet the op’ning morn
Of this glad day;

The angels sing, and men with them rejoice.

And gladly say:

“Glory to God, whose promise is fulfilled!

To man be peace!

For Christ our Lord begins His holy reign,

To never c«ase!”

December, 1926: Vol. X., No. 4

Canadian Railroader , Montreal

¥ ' -- - 3 %

Give Hogan Credit

By Hugh Shoobridge

“ A N engine”, said Jack Kerry, “an engine

/A ain’t just what you think it is; boys
a’ boys us old fellows knows a real
hog has it's feelings. You can’t run one as
long as I’ve run ’em and not know that.”

The audience were youngsters — wipers,
hostlers and a call boy or so. In the little
shack that served as an office for the Loco-
motive Foreman they w r ere gathered around
the stove encouraging Jack Kerry in one of
his talking spells. For the time being the
roundhouse was still for it was the quietest
hour of the night at Kamleau. In their stalls
great locomotives stood at rest w T ith their
fires just a-glow ready to be blown up as their
time for action came; among them was the
3808 which Jack Kerry had brought in from
the east. Jack had signed off duty and lit
his pipe and relapsed into the one armchair;
when he came in at this small morning hour
he never troubled to go home until dawm.

“Feelings”, remarked a hostler derisively.
“Feelings — that’s more than an Engineer has
anyway”. He was smarting from some
criticism of the care he had taken, or failed
to take, of the 2556 the smart passenger
flyer with the gold paint. “If 2556 has feel-
ings she must blush when her hogger talks.”

Jack Kerry took him seriously. “That re-
minds me”, he said. It was beginning to be
pointed out that Jack took the veriest trifling
seriously. That he never noticed when the
boys were nudging each other and laughing
out of the corners of their mouths and wink-
ing; he would still talk on earnestly, even
fiercely. Men were saying that it was time
Jack Kerry was retired; they were beginning
to wonder if he was still safe in a cab.

“I mind the time”, said Jack — and with
that familiar opening the whole group re-
laxed to listen in comfort — “I mind the time
when Hogan had his feud with the thirty-
three hundred. Hogan was Master Mechanic
fifteen, maybe twenty, years ago. A most
powerful talker was Hogan and the thirty-
three hundred — she was the wickedest lump
of old iron I ever see. A real dowmright bad
disposition had the thirty-three hundred.

Yet I blame Hogan. He cursed his luck
because he had to take her from the East
when they got some new power down on them
divisions around Montreal. Them fellows
down there they says to theirselves they
says, “now what in hades are we going to do
with the thirty-three hundred — that dirty
old stinking tea kettle!, You see boys the
old hog wasn’t ready for the scrap heap —
she had a heap of work in her and if it hadn’t
been for her mean disposition they would
have kept her hauling drags down on one of
them Eastern divisions. But Hogan had a
mean disposition, too, so they kind of wished

her on to him and up to Kamleau she come one
morning as part of the extra power for the
winter rush.

“She fell down on us three times in the first
two weeks. Seemingly she didn’t like 30
below zero and the Lake Superior climate.
No matter what they did to her in the shops
it didn’t make no difference. It was her dis-
position. For see, boys, when she’d get
helped over the grade and home they’d look
her over in the roundhouse and Hogan would
just naturally cuss himself to tears because
he couldn’t find nothing wrong. Not a tar-
nation thing.

“I always was wise about engines. I can
just naturally sense the bad ’uns, the ones
that want to balk and lay down. I seen how
it was with the thirty-three hundred and so
I told Hogan, but first he laughed at me and
then he swore at me for an old fool — and
mind you I’d been a hostler when Hogan was
a pup. I never took much from nobody, not
even Master Mechanics, and I told Hogan
pretty plain what a little he knew to claim
that all there was to an engine was the tubes
and boiler and firebox of her. So to be even
Hogan thought he’d load her on to me.

“All right Kerry”, he says, “you take her;
you take this blasted holy junk; may be if
you kiss her and cuddle her she’ll pull her ton-
nage over Hemlock grade for you.”

“So I took her of course. And believe me or
believe me not I made her do the job. The
thirty-three hundred and me we’d take our
full tonnage out of Kamleau here and we’d
tool it into Black River and the very most
we had to do was to double Hemlock grade
once or twice. I did it steady for a month
boys and it was wicked weather. Cold. Real
cold. Not like what we get now.

“Hogan laughed at first and then he
cracked me up to be the best engineer on the
pike. Which I never was. I told him how it
was — I studied her mean disposition and I
drove her where she could be drove and coaxed
her easy like when my senses told me that was
what she wanted. We got to a Kind of an
understanding and Hogan says he was going
to ride with me and tell my wife all about it.

“So he come. It was one of these raw
nights. Not real bitter but snowy with a nasty
bite to the wind. The snow hard and pellety.
We took on full tonnage and nothing was
sweeter than the old thirty-three hundred
for a while. Hogan was back in the van at
first and we was around Goose Lake when he
come up to the cab. We were spotted there
under the tank taking water and I heard a
step on the gravel and there Hogan came
climbing up. I sensed trouble, boys, for sure
as I’m alive the old thirty-three hundred
gave a little puff and blew out steam around

her cylinders. The steady cough of her ex-
haust changed it’s note. I knew when Hogan
was in the cab there was going to be trouble.

“The fireman swung up the spout and came
down off the tender to his scoop. He opened
the firebox and in the pretty red glare flung
a smooth layer of coal; then he looked back
for the signal while I had my hand on the
throttle ready to ease her into the load again.

“We was ready to go and I tried to take the
slack of them cars gentle. Boys I thought the
thirty-three hundred had went plumb crazy.
She plunged forward taking up the slack
with a yank that went zipping down the
whole string and pulling drawbars in every
fifth car; then she stopped dead like a balking
mule and bang-bang-bang, them cars was
piling into the back of each other with
reports like gunshots that cracked out right
back to the van. Then that wicked old hog
sat there blowing steam from her cylinders
and Hogan picked himself up from the floor
of the cab swearing a blue streak.

“Well, Sir, it was just like I never handled
an engine before. We got her off finally after
another rip snorting yank and soon we was
out and at the foot of the grade into Hemlock.
The way she was coughing I knew thirty-
three hundred would never make it. Hogan
was sitting on the fireman’s seat trying to
tell me what to do — but Lord I knew what
to do. It was a case for doubling into Hem-
lock so I whistled out a flag and the front end
braivie pulled a pin and we started up with
half the load leaving the rest to be called
back for once we’d dropped the first half of
the string on the passing track at Hemlock.
At first we went up with that light load rolling
behind us and I thought the old hog was
going to be good after all, but by jiminy
before we hit the top she began to bark with
them short sharp exhausts.

The fireman he was piling on his fire, but
try as we would the steam guage showed the
pressure dropping. I gave her the sand and
just in cussedness as soon as I did it her
driving wheels began to slip. The rail wasn’t
bad. the cold wasn’t bad, the load was easy,
there wasn’t nothing wrong only that Hogan
was in the cab and thirty-three hundred
could never abear Hogan. I knew so plain
that was what was wrong and I never felt
one mort surprised when she died right there
two feet from the top. ‘It’s you Hogan’, I
told him, ‘you’ll have to get back in the van’.

“Boys, you should have heard Hogan.
This was the time he mastered the old thirty-
three hundred. He got out there in the snow
and raved at her. By jiminy what he didn't
call her ain’t never been called anything. It
was Hogan’s bull headed temper — the blue
nose streak them Nova Scotians with a bit of

Canadian Railroader, Mo/dr cal

Irish have — against the eussedtiess bred into
r ,hirty-three hundred’s very tubes. This time
Hogan won. I give Hogan credit. Some
fellows think it must have been funny 1 , but
I ^ell you I knew there was very had feeling
oil the hill that night. And not all Hogan’s
neither. Hogan out there in the snow was
like a wild man and the thirty-three hundred
poured out dirty black smoke and grunted
like an old grampus.

“Soon she answered my prayers and
Hogan’s abuse. When I called on her she
gave a tremor, her driving wheels slipped once
and then gripped on the sand; she picKed up
(hem cars like they was nothing. ‘Go on you
filthy knock-kneed jelly fish of an oil can’,
celled Hogan, ‘get moving you useless gob
of putrid junk. You’ . . . The rest of it
faded out for old thirty-three hundred was
snorting and rattling along down into Hem-
lock with that fore part of the train. We
never had no more trouble that night.

“That was the time Began won. There
was another time though. I knew there would
be another time; and boys to this day I
don’t know who won that second bout. 1
know Hogan didn’t and yet 1 don’t know as
he was beat. You've got to give credit to
Hogan.”

Jack Kerry fell silent and mused a space.
His listeners smiled doubtfully at ea°h other.
Down the yard was heard the rumble of cars
bunted by a switching engine. By the win-
dows, breathing ease and power, towering
over the little wooden building, went the
2218 moving down ready to take over No. 2
when she pulled in at 4.00 a.m. The shacK
trembled as the big cylinders, the great
driving wheels and the red firebox passed the
window.

“After that night Hogan left the thirty-
three hundred alone for quite awhile. Beyond
cursing every time she fell down, skimping
on her repairs, and giving her all the donkey
wor k — such as work trains and ballast trains

beyond this, Hogan left the thirty-three

hundred alone. Yet he come to grips with her
one day unexpected.

“He was riding east on a passenger train
and what must happen but the thirty-three
hundred which has a string of ballast cars
gives out just before she can get into clear.
The passenger train with Hogan on it is held
up behind that string of loaded dump cars
and Hogan comes rip roaring down the track
to see what in Hades is the matter and re-
calling what the super said to him last time
one of his engines laid out a passenger train.

“When he see it was the thirty-three
hundred, he just grunted. He dumb into the
cab and wants to know what’s the matter;
he gets an earful. Old Jerry Britton had her
that day and Jerry’s troubles was always a
mile long. When Jerry finishes there ain’t
one scrap of virtue left to the thirty-three
hundred. She leaks, she won’t steam she
won’t even whistle right according to Jerry.
Of course, Hogan all the time is thinking of
them idle parlor cars back down the track
and the polite way the lady passengers in

them is cussing the Railway Company not
to mention the less polite way the men aie
doing it in the smokers.

*“ Hogan pushes Jerry Britton aside. Leave
her to me’, he says, ‘I’ll get this train into
dear or I’ll bust this crazy mass of jun.v all
over the right of way. Stand aside. ^ oil
Riley’ -he goes on to the fireman— ‘you
blow up your fire quick as you can; I want
lots of steam’.

“Jerry Brit ton just stood back on the tender
apron and wished Hogan luck. He had had
enough of thirty-three hundred that da\
and was not unhopeful that Hogan would
have met more than his match. •

“Standing there, they was raising the steam
pressure all right and soon Hogan thought it

A VILLAGE CAROL

C OME joy to you, my masters all,

Be merry while you may,

And may good cheer attend all here,
For this is Christmas Day.

The fire is bright upon your hearth,

And we, good men and true,

Would drink your health, good hap and
wealth,

If so it pleases you.

The ivy and the holly tree
Whose leaf it never fades,

How bright they show with mistletoe
For kissing pretty maids.

They make each house a pleasant sight,

A bower fresh and green,

As is most right on Christmas night,

And joyous to be seen.

The wind is cold without your door;

The snow is on the ground.

Yet we may win our way within,

Where mirth and joy abound,

To pledge you in a glass of cheer
Before your Yulelog fire,

And raise again our tuneful strain
If that be your desire.

— C. E. B.

was time to make her lift the load First he
cursed her entire and then he cursed all her
parts separate, and when he opened the
throttle by jiminy if she didn’t pick up her
string just as beautiful as any of your big
Pacific hogs today. Just beautiful. ‘Bv God
she knows her master’, said Hogan.

“Jerry Britton stood there wondering how
it was done and soon they were pulling into
the spur at Calder; in them days there was
no passing track at Calder; it was just a
spur running along beside the river and
coming to a dead end against a pile of ties.
Beyond the ties the river bank curved in and
there was a twenty-foot drop into the water.
Hogan would only just about have room for
his train so naturally he was easing in kind
of slow and calculating, and he was half

wav down the spur before thirty-three
hundred played her hand so to speak.

“Now there’s some fellows won’t believe a
thing when it’s plain before their eyes. Riley
and Jerry Britton seen this thing and I never
did, but I understood it far far better than
they ever did. I knew Hogan and I knew
t lie thirty-three hundred. Many a man telling
about this would say it was what could be
expected in an old hog without any morals
that had been raising steam pressure for
fifteen minutes and the fireman sweating
blood all the time. An v wavs, have it how
you will, half wav down that spur something
blew in the* cab and in just a moment Rilev
and Britton had jumped right and left onto
the ground. They got off light, just scalded
a bit, but Hogan at the throttle got the full
blast of the steam that filled the cab like a
white cloud. Now I sav that thirtv-three
hundred did that to Hogan just as intentional
as I might tread on a spider. But I never
tread on spiders, having good reason to know
it don’t pae.

“Hogan must have been scalded near to
death. Most men would tell vou that what
happened was because he went crazv with
pain and didn’t know what iie was doing.
But I knew Hogan. And bv this time Hogan
knew the thirtv-three hundred. He was
awake at last to what a devil was in her and
in his agonv he determined that he’d never
leave that evil old hog running on wheels to
be a trial and a danger to other men. You
must give Hogan credit.

So what happened was this. Of a sudden
the thirtv-three hundred plunged forward.
The throttle must have been pulled wide
open and in spite of the steam she was
wasting on Hogan and the cab she still had
enough to start rolling down that spur like
she was taking a string of parlor ears out of
Kamleau. The engineer and fireman had
not picked theirselves up before the dump cars
were jerked up and started off like they had
somewhere to go; spilling ballast all over the
right of wav off thev went towards that pile
of old ties at the end of the spur.

“Hogan and the thirtv-three hundred, both
in a cloud of steam, went likettv split into
the tie pile. Thev dumb right over it and
through it and went with a mightv splash
and hissing down into the Otter River. After
’em charged all them cars— bang, bang, bang
— crashing into the one foreninst them and
coining to a stop all wavs up, on and off the
track.

“That was how Hogan finished with the
thirtv-three hundred. You might sav she
pulled a master stroke on him when her
hatred got to sizzling at just such a point
she was ready for killing. But vou got to
give Hogan credit. Hogan fought to the end
— and it was hen* end as well as his.’

The lights in the shack were beginning to
look dim in the cold bleak light of dawn.
Jack Kerrv knocked out his pipe and gathered
together his things.

“Time I was getting home bovs,” he re-
marked. “I could do with a bito of break-
fast.”

Canadian Railroader . Montreal

cccmher ,

1926:

Vo!

X . No 4

1 1

The Story of
Our Christmas
Carols

A . PLEA for the revival of carol singing
in schools and choiis was made some
time ago by a well-known London
clergyman. He deplored the fact that the
old English carols, which contain not only
some of our sweetest national melodies, but
are a storehouse of sound Christian theology,
should be so much neglected.

Sung between the scenes of the mystery
and miracle plays, the Christmas carol is
supposed to have originated in the eleventh
century. At this period these plays were
the popular form of entertainment, especially
in religious centres, and these then were many.
Thus it became customary for the carol to be
sung while the scenes were being re-arranged or
shifted, and these songs generally had re-
ference to Christmas and Twelfth Night, and
the redemption of mankind. In this way it
was that the carol became popular to be handed
down even to our own time.

At Christmas gatherings then it was the
rule to ask every person present to contribute
a song to the entertainment of the evening,
and the guests invariably sang those songs or
carols that, having been sung by their fathers,
were handed down to them to sing, as did
their parents before them. So the songs sung
at these plays became Christmas songs or
carols.

It was only when Puritanism overswept the
land and Christmas feasts and merry-making
were abolished, that the voices of the carollers
were hushed. Happier days came, with them
the celebration of Christmas was resumed, and
the carol, melodious or otherwise was heard
again.

At the British Museum may be seen a time-
stained parchment, on which is written by a
monkish hand the first carol of which we have
certain knowledge. It was penned in Nor-
man-French in the thirteenth century, but
this particular carol is better fitted fora
convivial gathering than for a roligk us ser-
vice. For this was the type of many of our
earliest known carols songs of gaiety and
good cheer such as might form a spirited
accompaniment to the steaming wassail-lxiwl
and the flames < f goodly logs roaring up
spacious baronial chimneys. Such was the
character of that “sett of carols which
Wynkvn de Wordc gave to a jollity -loving
world in 1521 .

Such songs, however, would have been little
to the taste of the Franciscan friars, who an*
said to have originated carols in England

about the time of Henry III., mating old
ballad-melodies to holy themes- grave and
solemn Christmas chants such as “The Sons
of Levi” —

I'or we are the true-born Sons of Levi,

By the bright and the glorious star.”

But with the Reformation came a chasten-
ing of high spirits and a return to the carol of
more pic us days. Strangely enough, scarcely
any traces of very early carol singing can be
found in Scotland; though it has always been

XT H €

CHRISTMAS EVE

C HRISTMAS EYE, and twelve of the
clock,

“Now they are all on their knees,”
An elder said as we sat in a flock
By the embers in heart hside east*.

We pictured the meek, mild creatures where
They dwelt in their strawy pen;

Nor did it occur to any of us there
To doubt they were kneeling then.

So fair a fancy, few could weave
In these days! Yet 1 feel,

If someone said on Christmas Eve
“Come, see the* oxen kneel.

‘In the lonely barton by yonder coomb
Our childhood used to know,”

I should go with him in the gloom,

Hoping it might be so.

Thomas Hardy.

% If HI

prevalent, not only in England, but in many
other e< untries on the Continent. Warton,
in his “History of English Poetry,” refers to a
license granted in 1552 to a certain John
Tysdalo, permitting him to publish “Certaigne
goodly Carowles to be senge to the Oloiy of
Ocd,” as also “Crestenmas Carowles,
authorized by my Lord of London.”

In the “Glide and Godly Ballates < t Scot-
land, as also “Ane Compendium Book of
Godly and Spiritual Sangs,” printed at
Edinburgh in 1621, wc find the Puritan pro-
test against the se so-called * Carowles, and,
indeed, against the observance o! the old festi-

val of Christmas itself, as savouring of that
popery and Mariolatry which they so rigor-
ously condemned.

Happily the best ot the old carols have come
down to us, such as “The First Nowell,”
“The Holly and the Ivy,” and “What Child
is This?” haunting melodies with an irresis-
tible swing, allied to quaint words which add
1 lie charm of story to the spirit of praise.

And to such survivors from ancient days,
composers and poets of more recent years
have made many welcome additions. Such
are “Christians, Awake!” written by John
Byrom as a Christmas gift for his little
daughter, and first sung at the doorway of
Byrom’s house, Kersal Cell, near Manchester,
on Christmas Eve, 1750; and Gounod’s
“Cradled All Lowly,” the air of which is so
simple that a baby might lisp it; and yet it is
presented to present-day audiences with all
the |>omp, and dignity that a great orchestra
and choir could give it.

CHRISTMAS IN OLDEN TIMES

S IR WALTER SCOTT has given us a
cheerful picture of Christmas as our
forefathers kept, it, when the baron's
doors were opened wide to vassal, tenant, and
serf, and Power laid down his rod and Cere-
mony doffed his pride, halls wen* decked with
holly and damsels donned their kirtlo sheen,
“nor failed old Scotland to produce at such
high tide 1 her savory goose,” says Mary
A ugh ton. Many old observances survive,
along with hospitality and friendly reunions,
for the spirit of Christmas is renewed as year
succeeds year, unconquered either by war or
war’s grim aftermath. The darkest days of
the year an* beautified with kind thoughts,
glow with holy incentives to peace and good-
will, and hold besides the ancient associations
of mirth and cheerfulness, the generous
giving which expects no return, but rejoices
in having friends to give to, and in being able
to give.

God rest ye, little children; let nothing you
affright,

For Jesus Christ, your Saviour, was born this
happy night;

Along the hills of Galilee, the white flocks
sleeping lay,

When Christ, the Child of Nazareth, was born
on Christmas Day.

Christmas Carol.

Canadian Railoadcr\ Montreal

Peace and Goodwill

W E are beginning to feel already the
sweep of life that hurries us all along
to the keeping of the Christmas
season; our music already takes on a Christ-

mas tone, and we begin to hear the song ot the
angels which seemed to the Evangelists to
give the human birth of Jesus a fit accompani-
ment in the harmonies of heaven.

W HEN pins in their present form were
invented in the reign of Henry VIII.
they at once became very popular as
New Year gifts for ladies, or if not pins “pin
money” was given. The Acte for the true
making of “Pynnes” stipulated that the price
should not exceed 6s. 8d. a thousand.

Gloves were also a favorite New Year’s
present. There is a pretty story told of Sir
Thomas Moore, who as Lord Chancellor,
decided a case in favor of a lady with the
unattractive name of Croaker. On the
ensuing New Year’s Day she sent him a
pair of gloves with 40 gold coins in them. Sir
Thomas returned the money with the follow-
ing note: “Mistress, — Since it were against
good manners to refuse your New Year’s gift,
I am content' to take your gloves, but as for
the lining I utterly refuse it.”

This song of the angels, as we have been
used to reading it, was a threefold message;
of glory to God, peace on earth, and good-will
among men; but the better scholarship of the
Revised Version now reads in the verse a
twofold message. First, there is a glory to
God, and then there is peace on earth to the
men of good-will. Those, that is to say, who
have the good-will in themselves are the ones
who will find peace on earth. Their unsel-
fishness brings them their personal happiness.
They give themselves in good-will, and so they
obtain peace. That is the true spirit of the
Christmas season. It is the good-will which
brings the peace. Over and over again in
these months of feverish scrambling for per-
sonal gain, men have sought for peace and
have not found it; and now, when they turn to
this generous good-will, the peace they sought
comes of itself. Many a man in the past year
has had his misunderstandings, grudges or
quarrels rob him of his own peace; but now,
as he puts away these differences as unfit for
the season of good-will, the peace arrives.

That is the paradox of Christianity. He
who seeks peace does not find it. He who
gives peace finds it returning to him again.
He who hoards his life loses it, and he who
spends it finds it: —

“Not what we give, but what we share,

For the gift without the giver is bare;

Who gives himself with his alms feeds
three, —

Himself, his hungering neighbor, and Me.”

That is the sweet and lingering echo of the
angel’s song.

CHRISTMAS DAY

C HRISTMAS DAY has dawned at last,
A day of great rejoicing 1
When young and old with one accord
Are Christmas wishes voicing.

Seated round the blazing fire
Cracking jokes and crackers,

Singing songs of heart’s desire
There’s no room for slackers.

Some are young with witty tongue
And faces bright and gay;

But old and young enjoy the fun
On merry Christmas Day.

—DOROTHEA HAWKES.

December, 1926: Vol. X., No. 4

CHRISTMAS GREENERY

F ROM time immemorial, holly, as well as
yew and mistletoe, has been associated
with the winter religious festival by
Druids, Romans, and Christians.

The Christians in Britain took the custom
over from those who worshipped heathen gods,
and invested it with a new and mystical
significance. So by degrees, there grew round
the holly a symbolism to which the tree in its
attributes readily lent itself. Its general
brightness made it a fit symbol for rejoicing at
the Birth of the Christ-child, its evergreenness
spoke of the life unending, its white flowers of
purity, while its sharp spines and blood red
berries foretold the crown of thorns and the
passion that lay before Him.

In the middle ages a curious rivalry was
supposed to exist between the holly and the
ivy as to which plant took pre-eminence in
the Christmas celebrations. The ivy being
dedicated to Bacchus, was not thought to be
an altogether suitable plant with which to
decorate the insides of buildings, whilst the
holly, which by time had become the
“holy” tree, was used within both church and
house.

Man} old carols and songs celebrate this
rivalry , one such in the Harleaian collection
dated 1456, begins thus —

Nay, Ivy, nay, it shall not be I wys;

Let Holy hafe the mastery as the maner ys.
Whilst another verse says: —

Whosoever against holly do cry
In a rope shall be hung full high.

No custom, coming down to us from the
earliest days of our history, has perhaps per
sisted so regularly and so unchanged as tha"
of Christmas decorations with greenery, and
always holly is mentioned. Yet it is rather
curious to find in 1656 a writer named Coles
speaking of it as if the custom were growing
obsolete.

All sorts of quaint bits of superstition are
attached to holly. It was said to be the chief
detestation of witches, and it was believed one
could divine the future by its means. It was
also reckoned to be a guard against thunder-
storms, and the ancient Kelts used to plant it
in their homes to ward off evil.

It may not be generally known that holly
has “sex,” and only the female trees bear fruit.
In the Midlands, however, the difference of
“he-holly” and “she-holly” has nothing to do
with sex only with the form of the leaves,
the prickly kind being called “he-holly” and
the smooth kind “she-holly,” though prickli-
ness is often as much a characteristic of the
female sex as of the male. Anyway there is
a quaint country supersitition that if “he-
holly” be first brought into the house on
Christmas Eve, the husband will be master of
the house during the coming year, but if “she-
holly” comes in first, the wife will “wear the
breeks.”

The true keeping of Christmas is the
realization of the great love that brought
us salvation and left us the example of a
divine life.

OLD NEW-YEAR’S GIFTS

December, 1926: Vol. X., No. 4

Canadian Railroader , Montreal

nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn

□

In Retrospect

T AM sitting tonight in the glow of the grate and am counting the years that have gone,
A And I’m thinking of how I have used up the time and what I have given each one.
I have toiled to the top of the hill s western slope, and I’m just looking backward to see
What I’ve done with the days and the years that were mine and all that has happened
to me.

I ve tasted of happiness, laughter and love, and all of the things that are sweet;

Have walked through the valley of sorrow and woe, but never admitted defeat.

I have stumbled and fallen— not once, but a score — have been criticized time and again,
But I find no disgrace in the fact that I fell, but pride that I've risen again.

I might have been rich, if I’d wanted the gold, in place of the friends I have made;

I might have had fame, if I’d chosen renown, instead of the hours that I’ve played.

I haven’t built much of a fortune to leave to those who shall carry my name,

And nothing I’ve done shall entitle me here to a place on the tablet of fame.

But I’ve loved the great sky, with its spaces of blue, and have lived with the birds and
the trees:

I have turned from the lure of the silver and gold to share in such treasure as these,

I have given my time to the children of men, together we’ve romped and we’ve played,
And I wouldn’t recall the glad hours spent with them for the money that I might have
made.

I chose to be known and be loved by the boys, and was deaf to the plaudits of men,
And I’d make the same choice, should the chance come to me, to live my life over again.
I’ve lived with my friends and I’ve shared in their joys — known sorrow, with all of its
te&rs ;

I have harvested much from my acres of life — though some say I’ve wasted my years.
For much that is fine has been mine to enjoy, and I’ve tried just to live to my best,

And I find no regret, as the shadows grow long, for the gold that I might have possessed.
I have wiped away tears and have planted some smiles — have walked hand in hand with
despair;

I have helped with the burden and lightened the load — too hard for my brother to bear.

And all through the years I have done just my best to banish the tear and the sigh:

I have lost out on wealth, but I’m sure of this truth— I’ve got some things that money
won’t buy.

And the song of the birds, the perfume of flowers, the love of the dog and the boy
Shall make me content, as I wander along, so sure as they’re mine to enjoy.

So the years may slip by, as they have in the past— I’ve no reason to change or amend—
For the path I have followed is filled with delight, and will always be mine in the end.
If this be success, then I’m surely content; if it’s failure, I make no amends—

But the boon that I crave, as the years roll along, is to live in the hearts of my friends.

— W. N. Brown, Yeoman Shield.

□

nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn

Canadian Railroader, Montreal

December , 1926: Vol. X., No. 4

“K'K'K'Katie’s” Author is Canadian

Mr. Geoffrey O’Hara, formerly of Chatham, Ont., entertains with
fund of French-Canadian songs and inexhaustible fund of stories

By Roy Carmichael

E VERYONE has heard, and everyone
has sung or tried to sing, or at least
has hummed the air of “K-K-K-
Katie,” but not everyone is aware that its
famous composer, Geoffrey O’Hara, is a
Canadian, an old Ontario boy, born in
Chatham.

Mr. O’Hara was in Quebec the other week"
end and was inveigled into the Jacques-
Cartier Salon of the Chateau Frontenac to
attend a banquet given by the Canadian
Pacific Railway Company to a number of
newspapermen, who were in the Ancient
Capital for the inauguration of the rebuilt
section of the Chateau.

Mr. J. Murray Gibbon, General Publicity
Agent of the C.P.R., who presided and was
responsible for the programe, had secured
Charles Marchand, the noted French-Can-
adian folk-lore interpreter and singer, and,
to make Marchand’s songs more easily
understood by the American newspapermen
had translated them into English with such
success that the “boys” were soon warbling
the choruses as if they had sung them all
their lives.

it came to MeGibhon’s knowledge' that
Mr. O’Hara had set a number of Dr. Drum-
mond’s Habitant poems to music, and in the
persuasive way with which he overcomes such
difficulties the C.P.R. man induced Mr.
O’Hara to forget his shyness, and sing a
number of songs to his own accompaniment
including “Leetle Bateese,” which, it need
scarcely be said, brought down the house,
the French-Canadians, including Marchand,
joining in tribute to Mr. O’Hara’s genius.

First, however, the American composer, in
an effort to sidestep the singing, told a number
of stories, all good, and some of t hem new. One
of them was about the East Side New York
teacher who asked her class the meaning of
the word “Stoic”. A little Jew boy held up
his hand. “It’s the boid what brings the
babies home”, he said. “And what is the
meaning of ‘Cynic’?” queried the teacher.
“That’s where mama washes the dishes”, the
boy replied.

Mr. O Hara told a good one “on” General
Pershing. When Pershing paid his first visit
to the front line trenches he was led by a
guide, and after him in single file trailed his
staff officers. There was tense excitement as
the guide in a hoarse whisper explained the
various purposes of the trenches, and Persh-
ing, covering his mouth with his hand, passed
back the word to his officers, also in a stage
whisper. “Communication trench”, whis-
pered the guide, and Pershing duly passed
the information back. “Front line trench”
huskily in a voice that could scarcely lx* heard.
“Front line trench”, whispered Pershing to
the officer nearest him, and the whisper was
passed down the lines. Then a thought struck
Pershing. The Germans must be very near.
He had heard the enemy’s trenches being
separated from the Allies sometimes by only
a few yards, so that the' troops were prac-
tically facing each other. “Where an* the
Germans?” he whispered. “About two miles
away”, came the whispered reply. “Then,

why in H are you whispering?” roared

Pershing. “I’ve got a sore throat, sir”, was
the guide’s reply.

O’ 1 la ra’s stories were racily told . They were
capped by one told in the characteristic
French-Canadian way by Captain Trudel,
Chief of Police of Quebec, who, by the way,
wears a tie-pin he received from King George.
Captain Trudel -told the story of an Irishman
who had neglected his religions duties for
years. One day in the woods he was con-
fronted by a ferocious looking bear. He
dropped to his knees and “prayed for help,
adding apologetically that he knew he did not
deserve to be helped as he had neglected his
religious exercises. “But”, he added, “if you
can’t help me, God, please don’t help the

bear, and you’ll see the most d dost

fight you never see in your life”.

“That must have been a French-Canadian
t rapper”, someone remarked. “Sure it was”
replied the Chief. “But I made him an
Irishman to please O’Hara.”

A little girl ran into the house crying
bitterly, and her mother asked her what was
the matter. “Billv has broken my dolly,”
she sobbed. “How did he break it?” asked
her mother. “I hit him on the head with
it,” was the answer

She: While you are asking papa for my
hand, I’ll play something lively on the piano.
He: I’d rather you didn’t, dearest. You
know, some people can’t keep their feet still
when they hear lively music.

C.ILR.’s FINEST LOCOMOTIVE

Another marked improvement in the efficiency and construction of modern railway locomotives has been achieved by -|i | )e

Pacific Railway. Twenty-four “Pacific” type locomotives are being delivered to the Company, and are the most powerful in use. * .
known as the (i-3-d class and are very similar in design to the well-known 2300 series Pacific class locomotive. By a special app
the superheaters, the boiler pressure is increased from 200 to 250 pounds per square inch. This is regarded as a highly importani i locomotive
greatly increasing the speed, haulage capacity and general efficiency. This was accomplished without increasing the weight ot e < mer j can
by using a stronger nickel steel boiler, which is the first niekel steel shell boiler plate used in locomotive construction on t e
continent. .

Delivery has also started on 20 Mikado type locomotives of the 5300 series, having the same improvements as have been app lie lo
2300 series, with the addition of mechanical stokers.

Canadian Railroader , Montreal

December, l ( )26: Vol. X., No. 7

£ fp^'S HoP ^ c

'^5? ^ Sj

V#e^ bet C^xy -to

^oO

Let’s

gigs

Make

Christmas

Brighter

Baby Jack

A S long as you see that I get niv three
bottles a day, you can keep your
Christmas. I want miles ami miles
of that pretty colored paper — all along the
ceiling and round all the pictures on the walls.
1 love that, and they don’t have half enough
of it.

And none of those things about which they
screech and giggle and make such a fuss; then
they pull it and it goes off with a bang. Coves
me a jump every time. They’re HORRID.
No crackers please ! Where’s the C.S.P.C.C. ?

Molly, the Flapper.

M AKE it a chocolate Christmas. I’d
like to have to wade ankle-deep in
boxes of chocs to the front door after
the last postman has come.

Christmas is “too” bright, if you ask me!
As soon as I’ve bagged and set aside a nice
dark corner for when Dick or Charles or I.joslie
is going to feel a bit fed-up with dancing with
the kiddies, along comes mother and says:
“Here’s another lovely corner to hang some
of these pretty lanterns in! Fetch the steps
and the hammer, Molly, dear!”

Of course, I’m all for a Merry and Bright
Christmas — but keep it dark a little bit
“somewhere,” don’t you think ? Ask the other
girls!

Peter, the Postman

Y OU don’t know of any real good cure for
sore and tender feet, do you ? 1 t’s the

first million parcels of Christmas week
that are the worst. Speaking professionally,
us postmen will never “really get the best
out of Christmas till we’re able to send all
Christmas presents weighing over two ounces
bv wireless.

Sparkling Suggestions
from All Sorts of
People

Bill, the Burglar.

I SAY’ that nobody ever thinks of the poor
dawgs at this gay-and-festive time.
Why shouldn’t the poor dawg, what is
proper fed-up with his people all the rest of the
>ear, have a real Christmas holiday on his
little own ?

Send your dawg away to a dawgs’ nursing
home or something. Give him a rest from all
of you he’s earned it.

And we want louder gramophones. D’ye
got me? So loud that you can’t hear yours
truly paying any of you a nice little visit, all
quiet and friendly like.

It’s about time they started to breed dogs
without barks — what’s the use. of a bark,
anyway? Life’s crool hard in the winter.
Give me a chance, can’t yer?

Uncle Septimus (aged thirty-one)

Y OU can’t improve Christmas, take my
word for that! I’m lucky enough to
have kept a bachelor, and I’ve got any
number of charming nieces. I wouldn’t
mind beggaring myself to get all their little
presents if I had to, bless them all! Keep
Christmas just as it is for me Christmas,
when all the dear girls are jolly and any time
is kissing time! Good old Christmas!

Aunt Maud (aged thirty-nine and
single)

I WAS alarmed to read in the newspapers
that there will probably be a shortage of
mistletoe this year. This is simply
terrible news. This is — every right-thinking
spinster will agree with me — AWFUL!
What would our Christmas be without mistle-
toe ?

I call upon all the maiden ladies of this great
Empire to join the great organization I am
starting — t he ; 1 We-Can ’ t- Ha ve-Too-M uch
Mistletoe League.” Every garden, whatever
the size, must immediately start planting
mistletoe, or rearing it, or pickling it, or
however the pretty little flower is get . Ladies,
rally round me! More mistletoe, and plenty
of it!

Grandfather George

B -R-R-RR-RR-HHHHHHH ! Hide that
thermometer — it frightens me. Isn’t
it icy? I can’t help that noise —
it’s only my poor old teeth chattering!
There’s only ene thing to !>e done. Have
Christmas on the twenty-fifth of JUNE!

Mother

T HERE can’t be anything nicer than
Christmas and seeing all the boys and
girls again, and their kiddies, who make
you feel so proud that you’re a grandmother!

But it could be “easier” things cost s>
much these days, and a lot of the dear boys
get married early and haven’t too much to
spend. There must be quite a lot who really
can’t afford to visit the old folks for Christmas.
So I think the clever and thoughtful railway
companies ought to let everybody who is
really going to the old home for the Christmas
holidays travel half fare. There wouldn’t
be any family disappointments then!

Canadian Railroader. Montreal

December, 1926: Vol. X, No. 4

“And There Shall Be No More
War” or Can We End War?

A Book Review, by C. J. B.

“The Christian and War (an appeal)”, by
Rev. M. F. McCutcheon, Rev. Dr. W. A. Gifford, Canon Allan P Shatford.
Rev. W. D. Reid, Rev. T. W. Jones and Rev. Dr. Richard Roberts.

A MONG the recently published books not even shoot a bird sitting. At the last
there is one that should have especial stroke of some August midnight you clap on
interest to readers, for it is the work of the war gear and thenceforth you may shoot
a Montreal professor and is issued under the

imprimatur of no less than five other out-
standing clergymen— representing as many
different denominations within the same city.
The title given to the book is “The Christian
and War,” and it is sent forth as an appeal to
the men of the Churches. Its plea is,
discover the facts concerning war and then
proclaim them, so that we may avoid such a
catastrophe in the days to come as fell upon
us in 1914. It is not a plea of “peace at any
price” that is here set forth; the writer
recognizes that “force” may be very necessary
at times. He carefully distinguishes between
“war” and “force.” War “is a long drawn
out and deliberate preparation for the use of
every known means of cruel and collective
destruction,” whereas appeals to force are
described as “national or international police
action” for moral ends, “War” is banditry,
“force” the gentle yet effective means used to
keep the peace. The one is utterly demoraliz-
ing, the other exists to serve the ends of
justice. “Wars in general have been appeals
to armed force for the settlement of questions
in dispute, without judicial examination and
decision by any accepted tribunal.” Whereas,
“Force can be made to serve the ends of love,
reverence and service” — “it may intervene
on the side of justice or helplessness” — ”

Such “international police action” presup-
poses, of course, an International Court of
Justice of some sort whose judgments can
thus be given effect— but to this we will return.

The indictment against war is very thorough
and would well repay careful study. To
attain brevity with clarity in this article
I will bring the matter under three heads; the
writer brings to our attention the costliness
of war, its horror, and withal its utter useless-
ness. “One would require to sink a Lusitania
every day for seventy years to match the
frightful human destruction of the Great War”
— so much for its cost in human life! The
cost in dollars and cents is as astounding,
“To Britain, the direct cost of the war, if her
loans to her allies were recoverable, would still
be one thousand dollars for every man, woman
and child in her borders, while the indirect cost
is almost as great”. But this is not all.
What of the moral costs ? This is a quotation
from C. E. Montague’s “Disenchantment.”
“You need to have two gears to your morals,
and drive in one gear in war and the other in
peace . While you are on peace gear you must

a man sitting or sleeping or any way you can
get him, provided you and he be soldiers on
opposite sides. “War suspends the rules of
moral obligation, and what is long suspended
is in danger of being totally abrogated.” Then
“war, now, is an unmitigated curse.” The day
has gone — or is going very fast when the valor,
the skill and the endurance of the individual
soldier decided the day. We are in the era
of warfare by bombs dropped from the air upon
defenseless cities; of long range guns whose
gunners cannot in any sense be certain where
the missiles will fall — as likely as not upon
helpless non-combatants in a city some
seventy miles distant ! Of poison gases deadly
enough to “destro> all life in a great city.
War has ceased to be an affair between soldier
and soldier. It is now, in the grimmest sense,
an aTair between nation and nation and
expediency is the only law. Men, women and
children in enemy countries are as legitimate
prey, a6 the soldier in uniform. All this was
manifest in some measure in the last war.
It will be mere so should another such conflict
arise — and it will unless our children are wiser
than we are.

Worst of all, war is utterly useless. Nearly
a decade has passed since the “war which was
to end war.” What have we gained? There
are more armed men in Europe to-day than
there were in 1913. There is deeper National
hatred than at any time during the last 100
years. The writer of this book, in an inter-
esting passage, shows how the Great War was
the lineal descendant of half a dozen European
wars fought within the last century . “Peace
is only another name for a “truce in which to
replenish the exchequer, and recruit a larger
and better-trained army.” Space forbids
my dealing with the causes of war, which the
writer treats in a very thorough fashion, and
it seems to me, that a quotation from Lord
Bryce will form a fitting conclusion to this
paragraph, “After twenty centuries of civili-
zation and nineteen centuries of Christianity,
mankind is settling its d sputes in the same
wa} that mankind did in the Stone Age!”
Much of the book is devoted — and rightly, of
course — to the attitude of the Church toward
war. The truth is apparent that the Church
has no doctrine of war. Dr. Gifford gives an
impressive list of early church fathers who
“denounced the practice of arms” as inconsis-
tent with the Christian profession” — Justin
Martyr, Tatian, Irenaeus, Tertullian Origen
and Athanasius — the list is formidable enough

to warrant one saying that during the first
three hundred years of its history, the Church,
through its leaders denounced war as anti-
Christian. Shortly after we find the Church —
the handmaid of the State— giving its blessing
upon war. The Middle Ages finds the Church
fighting for its material interests. The
Reformers “were too busy with other things to
work out the Christian ethic of war and too
closely pressed to give it effect if they found
it.” And so “for fifteen centuries the Christian
Church, Catholic and Protestant, has had no
distinctive doctrine of war.” This is due in
part to the confused understanding of Scrip-
ture — and of Christianity itself! Cromwell
went to Ireland and his cruel butchery of
men, women and children is still remembered
with especial hate. Now Cromwell was a
good man, — a Puritan, and he justified his
action by Scripture: Did not Gcd command
Saul to slay Amalak and spare not, but
destroy all — even women and children ?
Cromwell forgot that Jesus had given a
better law, a law of love — even to your
enemies! There is enough in the Old Testa-
ment to satisfy the “blood lust” of the veriest
fire eater, but the Old Testament itself sets a
higher standard. We should be careful to
remember that the standards of Israel’s
infancy are not the standards of its maturity,
but most of all let us remember that Christ
set us a standard which supercedes all. “Ye
have heard that it was said of old time, an eye
for an eye— but I say, love your enemy, do
good to those that hate you.” We should
take Christ’s word, and Christ’s alone for our
guidance. But what is Christ’s word ? Three
principles are given here, Love Reverence and
Service. Love to our fellows, reverence for
their personality. “Jesus would protect the
souls of men against assault,” and service to
humanity. These principles, Christ did “not
so much prescribe the action to be taken in
particular situations as proclaim the spirit to
be manifested in all situations.” Jesus is
silent about much, but these principles apply
to a ll — even to the question of war. Here
again it is necessary to say, the writer of this
book does not say — nor does he claim to say
the last word. He does insist that the Chris-
tian must think out — and the Church must
think out its doctrine of war, and to help them,
he leads the way. And the Church must
make up its mind!

What is, then, the task of the Church?
This is from Earl Haig: “It is the business of
the Church to make my business impossible.”
The Archbishop of Canterbury follows,
“We have seen with our eyes, we have heard
in our homes and hospitals its unspeakable, its
illimitable horrors — once let the Christian
men and women upon Earth, West and East,
North and South, kneel to God side by side,
stand snoulder to shoulder before men, to sa>
what they mean shall happen or rather, what
shall not happen, — and they are irresistible.
And Lloyd George, “If the Churches— allow
that (another war) to fructify, they had bettei
close their doors.” One might go on, so say
General Bliss of the U.S. Army; Sir Pnilip
Gibbs who had “an unexampled opportunity
to observe war as war correspondent.’ So say

December , 1926: Vol. X., No. 4

Canadian Railroader, Montreal

. the Nation, the New Republic, and the Chris-
tian Century and many others.

The time is most favorable. Never were
so many organizations making for peace and
good-will among men — The Union for Demo-
cratic Control which seeks to interest the
public in foreign affairs — (secret diplomacy is
the most fruitful cause of all wars); the World
Alliance for the Promotion of International
Friendship through the Churches; the World’s
Students’ Christian Federation; the Per-
manent Court of International Justice, which
arose out of the ashes of the Great War,
“which is recognized by no less than thirty-
one nations, and lastly, the League of Nations
—a “Parliament of Man.” It has already
“helped to prevent several wars, to rehabilitate
stricken Austria, to focus the moral energy of
mankind against flagrant international evils,
to advance open and honorable diplomacy by
the registration and publication of treaties.”'
Much more one would like to add, but it is
enough.

It is a careful study and the case is pre-
sented clearly and convincingly. The style
is good and the reading is easy. It is hoped
that the book will have the sale it deserves.
The publishers, too, have done their work well.
Paper, type and binding together are delight-
ful to one who likes books.

THE HAPPY LIFE.

How happy is he bom. and taught
That serveth not another's will;

Whose armor is his honest thought ,
And simple truth his utmost shill;

Whose passions not his masters cure;
Whose soul is still prepared for death ,
Untied unto the world by care
Of public fame or private breath;

Who envies none that chance doth raise ,
Nor vice; who never understood
How deepest wounds are given by
praise ;

Nor rules of state, but rules of good:

Who hath his life from rumors freed ;
Whose conscience is his strong retreat;
Whose state can neither flatterers feed,
Nor ruin make oppressors great;

Who God doth late and early pray
More of his grace than gifts to lend;
And entertains the harmless day
With a religious book or friend.

This man is freed from serrnle bands,

Of hope to rise or fear to fall;

Lord of himself, though not of lands,
And, having nothing, yet hath alL

— Sir Henry Wotton (1568-1639).

"PRESENTED"' A LIVING SACRIFICE”

E MBARKED at last upon “the most
beautiful adventure of all,” for which
she had prepared so many others,
Mother Alphonsa Lathrop, the youngest
child of Nathanial Hawthorne, has finished
a life of consecration and devotion which has
few parallels, and is perhaps unique, in the
long annals of charity. She gave up all —
career, family, a life of comfort — to devote
herself to those suffering from incurable
cancer and who were too poor to pay for any
sort of service. Her Rosary Hills Home in
New York was a refuge where every comfort
was given them and where, it is said, not
even a whim was denied the poor incurables.
“By her death,” observes the New York
“Herald Tribune”, “New York is deprived
of one of its finest philanthropists.” And,
speaking of her as “a literary link with the
past,” the Troy “Record” says: “But more
especially was she one of those rare souls
who become immortal because of their love
for and devoted service to mankind. The
work she did at her Rosary Hills Home was
exalted in that she herself applied the warmth
of charity that too often expresses itself
coldly and disinterestedly.”

Mother Alphonsa was the last surviving
child of Nathaniel Hawthorne and the widow
of George Parsons Lathrop, author and
editor. In her earlier years she continued the
literary tradition of her family, both as a
poet and an essayist. She married Mr.
Lathrop in London when a girl of twenty,
and both continued their literary work for
many years. Their only child, a boy, died in
childhood. In 1891 both renounced the
Unitarian faith and became Catholics. It
was then, we are told, that she became inter-
ested in the study of cancer and its alleviation
among the poor. After the death of her hus-
band in 1898 she opened a small home for
patients in Cherry Street, New York. In the
following years she widened the scope of her
charitable enterprise by establishing larger
homes in New York City and in Hawthorne,
New York State, as well as by forming a
community of Dominican Sisters known as
the Servants of Relief for Incurable Cancer.
For admission into these homes founded by
Mother Alphonsa the requirements are simple
and yet exclusive. Only those are received
who are without money and who have
neither friends nor relatives to support them.
Neither creed nor race is a bar; it is sufficient
that the applicant is poor and suffering.

Last spring, soon after her seventy-fifth
birthday, Mother Alphonsa received the gold
medal awarded annually by the New York
Rotary Club for the outstanding service to
humanity during the year. She was active
up to the time of her death, and we read in
the New York “World” that she “insisted on
tending herself the worst cases among her
charges.” She tried to satisfy not merely
the needs of her poor, but also their whims.
To many a welfare worker, “The World”
observes editorially, it would have been

enough to provide a refuge for tne sick and
to provide charity’s indifferent hospitality.
“But not for her. Her guests, poor and help-
less though they were, were still her guests,
and treated as such : their whims were deferred
to as well as their needs, and did they crave*
preposterous delicacies she did not chide
them for being unreasonable but did her best
to satisfy them, and usually succeeded.”

Distinguished daughter of a distinguished
father, Mother Alphonsa outdid him in the
story she lived, think some observers, and
the Cincinnati “Post” believes that “some-
thing of his mysticism, his sympathy and
his revolt at conventionalized life seems to
have entered her soul, though to find form
in a very different expression.” And says
“The Post”:

Superficially she may have forsaken
her father’s faith when she became a
Catholic, but she was essentially true to
it when she dedicated her life to the
service of helpless sufferers.

To understand how much Rose Hawthorne
Lathrop gave up, it is necessary that we
know that, as the Brooklyn “Eagle” puts it,
she was “born into the cult of the New Eng-
land literary Brahmins,” and made herself a
clever writer. And says “The Eagle”:

Those who knew Mrs. Lathrop forty
years ago when her short fiction was in
great demand in the magazine market,
when her poetry was most impressive, and
when her light sketches for children were
charming the little readers of St. Nicholas,
recall a fascinating personality. As a con-
versationalist she was much what Margaret
Fuller was, lighting up any subject with
wit-tempered philosophy. Her tact was
fine. She made no enemies and herself
nursed not a single animosity. She had a
very wide acquaintanceship in the literary
world and depended in no way on the name
of Nathaniel Hawthorne for her prestige.

Such was the woman who found the
allurement of authority in the Roman
Catholic faith and who devoted her life,
in the spirit of St. Marie De Chantal, to
the service of victims of an incurable dis-
ease, seeking to make slow death easier
for the poor who found in her a sym-
pathetic soul rather than a mere alms
dispenser. We suppose few careers have
been more dramatic — more rangefully
dramatic than Mother Alphonsa’s. She
deserves to be remembered and will be
remembered for what she was and what
she achieved for the benefit of suffering
humanity.

The superior durability of some woods is
found to be due to contained substances that
are poisonous to wood-rotting bacteria and
fungi, the poisons being more concentrated
in heartwood than in sap wood.

Canadian Railroader , Montreal

December , 1926: Vol. X., No. 4

Mr J. E. Dalrymple. who has resigned as Vice-President in charite of Traffic and Exprew in The Canadian Na-
tional Kailway Company, after a career of over 43 years with one railway interest. Mr. Dalrymple, who started as office
with' the Grand Trunk Railway in 1883 went seven year, later to Chicago, where, becoming secretary to George B
Reeve then Traffic-Manager of the Chicago and Grand Trunk Railway Company, he came under the d,re ^ . 1I ' flu ®". tul
one of the brightest traffic officers in North America and gained knowledge and experience of traffic

United States and internationally, so essential as a sure foundation for the great future awaiting . ® q hi ^

filling important posts in Hamilton, Detroit, St Albans, Winnipeg and Montreal with that energy and capacity whi
characterized his work at the commencement of his career and which gave him a premier place among traffjc offic
of both countries, he was as a matter of course chosen by Sir Henry Thornton to head the entire freight and
organization of the Grand Trunk System, and later the Express Department of the combined railways, now tompr £

the whole Canadian National Railway System. Mr. Dalrymple’s retirement from the transportation service will be
distinct loss to it and to the commercial interests of Canada which he so thoroughly understands.

December, 1926: Vol. X., No. 4

Canadian Railroader , Montreal

Women as Empire Builders

T O reconstruct the world after war and
to weld the Commonwealth of Nations
is the purpose of Britain’s persistent
effort toward Empire settlement, and while
some plans emphasize the need for men,
they make only a passing reference to the
need for women. A country can be colonized
without women, it is noted, but when settle-
ment begins, they are absolutely needed. At
this time of unemployment, when Britain
looks to the Dominions for a solution of the
problem of the workless, it would be well
to pay more attention to women as Empire
builders, suggests a contributor to “The
Empire Review” (London), who points out
that while the women who are successful at
home* are not likely to emigrate, also those
who still have to learn that they are not
properly educated until they can use their
hands as well as their heads should stay at
home. But whatever their education or
training, says this writer, E. F. Miller, the
future of Britain’s Empire depends most on
the character of those who go, especially on
the character of the mothers. The beneficent
influence and tenderness of the thoughtful
woman is required, and he adds that as wife,
mother, sister, teacher, nurse, homemaker
and inspirer of men, she is a power in Empire
building. A man may devote his life to
wheat -growing or sheep-farming, or to gold
and diamond-digging, but woman must be
“the many faceted diamond sparkling in the
Crown of Empire,” and Mr. Miller proceeds:
Labor-saving devices are not to be
expected in a new cabin, for farming is an
expensive undertaking and homesteaders
do not usually have money left over from
the capital they put into their business.
Vacuums may be purchased, but every
man knows that the best labor-saving
device is a capable wife about the house,
in countries where all work, there is no
stigma attached to domestic service. A
woman trained in housewifery need not
feel inferior, and she is always confident,
but, in addition to reliable cookery, she
should have a knowledge of dairying,
poultry-keeping, and gardening. These
are sometimes more important than house-
keeping, for houses an' simple affairs on
farms.

Steam-laundries do not exist in the out-
lying districts of Australia, so the girl who
grumbled at blistering her hands over the
polishing of a linen collar in a domestic-
science class may one day lx* proud to
send her colonial husband to a distant
town wearing a well-laundered one.

Canada, Australia, and New Zealand are
clamoring for domestics. Women farmers
are not prominent in any of the Dominions.
Widows do carry on farms established by
their deceased husbands, but a woman
beginning needs capital and men to labor
for her, besides a strong will and business
ability. Nearer the towns she can become

a fruit-grower or market -gardener. But,
where farming is on such a large scale,
women’s work is chiefly in the house,
except at harvest time, when they help
outside. They can succeed in New Zealand
as poultry-farmers, if they can find handy
men to do carpentry. Bee-keeping, the
growing of flowers and vegetables for the
towns, and of seeds for Britain arc* less
strenuous forms of money-making than
those of Canada or Australia. Dairy
farms are largo and there is not much
hope of employment in creameries, as there
are too many factory workers already.”

In South Africa life is easier for the settler
because the rougher work is done by natives,
and this informant advises us that there is
some demand for kitchen superintendents,
nurses and governesses and for wives, but
he adds, warninglv, “the climate has to be

T HE most serious railroad accidents of
recent vears have not been caused bv
breaking of rails, bridges or engines,
but have occurred when all these factors were
in perfect working order. With increased
business has come more and faster trains.
This has thrown such responsibilities on train
dispatchers that the men wear out in a few
years. Even when tlx* dispatcher has given
an order he cannot be certain that an agent
miles awav will execute it properly.

Mr. E. Peterson, Canadian National Rail-
wav agent at St. Hilaire, Que., has had patent-
ed a device which has for its object the* preven-
tion of collisions caused bv operators forget-
ting what train orders they have in their
possession. The device, it may be said,
briefly, consists of a convenient box or recep-
tacle for train order blanks, placed immedi-
ately behind a semaphore or signal board
lever which virtually locks its contents (the
order blanks) till the lever is raised from
across it; this process puts the semaphore or
signal board at "danger”, thus preventing an
operator accepting train orders for delivery
before it is so set. Should an attempt lx*
made to lower the semaphore or signal board
lever before the object of the extracted order
blank has been accomplished and the blank
returned to the box, the operator is warned
by an electric bell. The bell also rings should
the semaphore or signal board fail to properly
respond to the lever.

Mr. Peterson has his patent in working
condition at St. Hilaire, and has had it ex-

reckoned with. Of all professional women
emigrants, nurses are the most needed, it
appears, and tlx* great expense of supplying
district nurses in sparsely populated regions
is said often to cause suffering and death
among homesteaders too poor to pay.

The English sparrow-hawk is the
swiftest bird, sometimes flying at the
rate of 150 miles an hour; he would put
an express train quite in the shade,
wouldn’t he?

The smallest bird’s egg is about the
size of the head of a pin. It is laid by
the Mexican humming bird; and the
tinest British bird, the golden-crested
wren, is so very small that it would take
it and about 72 of its brothers and sis-
ters to weigh a pound.

-i —

amined by the Canadian National Railway
officials, who express themselves favorably.

To Prevent Railroad Collisions

New System Invented by a Railroad Man
Canadian National Railway Giving it a Trial

Canadian Railroader , Montreal

December, 1926: Vol. X, No. 4

The Christmas
Bush of

Australia

T HERE is a tree, with beautiful green
foliage that grows round about the
districts near the coast at Sydney,
New South Wales, which possesses pleasant
associations with the Christmas season, says
F. C. Leeson. About two months before
Christmas the tree begins to be covered with
white scented blossoms which afterwards give
place to pink and yellow seed vessels. About
Christmas Day these seed vessels assume a
bright red color.

The first settlers in Australia at Sydney
locked about them for material wherewith
to celebrate their first Christmas away from
home, but found very little material for
effective decoration purposes. There was,
of course, holly; but as it was then midsummer
— as it always is in Australia when the season
of Yuletide comes— so the holly had no
berries, and was thus devoid of its greatest
significance as a seasonable emblem. The
brilliant seed coverings of the tree that grew
with such profusion in the sandy wastes by
the shore appealed to these homesick people
as a very efficient substitute for the holly and
mistletoe which could not be had in all its
glory, and so they used it to decorate their
new homes in order to assist them in keeping
up Christmas in true English style.

Since this time the tree has been in great
demand in Australia at Christmas time. It
received the name of “our Christmas bush,”
and became the popular material for decorat-
ing shop fronts and the private houses in the
district. Not only this, the use has spread to
the other Australian States, and it is now sold
as decorative material in the shops much in
the same way as holly and mistletoe are
treated in this country.

So greatly has this “Christmas bush”
grown in the estimation of the Australian
people that the trees are annually stripped
of practically all their branches; wherever it

may grow — in gardens or in the wild state, the
tree is not safe from the stripping process.
It is fortunate, however, that the tree has
great recuperative powers, and it recovers
rapidly from the rough usage and bears the

THE SPIRIT OF GIVING

N EVER mind if the money
in the purse is small so
long as the wish in the
heart is big. And in receiving
presents remember always that
they stand for something more
than themselves. It's nice to get
“just what I wanted,” but nicer
still to know that the gift ex-
presses what we all want most
of all — love.

In recent years we have lost
something of the true spirit of
giving. We have thought over
much of the value of the pres-
ents offered and received. If we
are rich people and can make
others expensive gifts it is very
nice for us — and for them. But
originally the stress was on the
significance of the gifts rather
than on their worth in money.

same amount of Christmassy decoration every
year without fail.

Holly is fast becoming ignored as a season-
able shrub, and without the “Christinas bush”
Christmas would be robbed of half its signi-
ficance in Australia.

Poetic Beauty

To many Christmas customs and ob-
servances are attached superstitions or beliefs
filled with poetic beauty. The custom of
decorating a house with evergreens derives
from a belief that woodland spirits were thus
provided with a shelter from winter’s devasta-
ting storms. The word “carol” derives from
“cantare” to sing, and “rola,” an interjection
of joy, and carol-singing is the custom of
celebrating the Nativity with joyful song, as

did the angelic choirs heard by shepherds at
Bethlehem. Almost every European nation
has its carols; our earliest Christian fore-
fathers had theirs, and a few have been handed
down from Anglo-Norman times.

The way to the manager is ages old. But
still is fair,

And kings and beggars and young and old,
Have crowded there.

“EWE LOAF”

The modern Christmas cake derives from
the “Ewe Loaf,” a cake decorated with the
figure of a lamb, and the customary Christ-
mas gift in certain districts long ago; the
symbolism of the lamb is obvious. “To the
soft-eved kine some secret things are known
since they knelt at the manger-throne,” writes
a Scottish poetess of to-day, indicating the
source of the lovely old belief that at midnight
on Christmas Eve the gentle kine fall on their
knees. The poetry of the human heart allies
itself with the spirit of happ^, Christmas.

DICKENS AND CHRISTMAS

“I am sure I have always thought of Christ-
mas time, when it has come round— apart
frcm the veneration due to its sacred name
and origin as a g( od time — a kind of forgiving,
charitable, pleasant time; the only time I know
of in the long calendar of the year when men
and women seem by r one consent to open their
shut-up hearts freely and to think of people
below them as if they really were fellow-pas-
sengers to the grave and not another race of
creatures bound on another journey!”—
“Christmas Carol.”

THE CHRISTMAS TREE

Holland is the source of a large proportion
of England’s Christmas tree supplies. The
tree is grown specially for the purpose, and
there is a declaration on the label of each
bundle that the trees are unsuitable for fur-
ther cultivation, and are free from insect pests
or disease that would cause them to be con-
demned under an Order of the Board of
Agriculture two years ago. Local supplies of
trees come from Kent, Surrey, and farther
afield. The great point about a Christmas
tree is that it should be shapely, and this is
not always the case with those taken from
plantations where they have been grown
merely as cover for game. Those raised bj
market gardeners for Christmastide are always
allowed space all round in which to develop
the symmetrical pyramid form desired. It is
not difficult to account for the popularity of
the Christmas tree. To the children it has all
the appealing elements of mystery and bright-
ness, as well as the wonderment as to what it
holds for themselves. The older folks enjoy it
no less, and can be offered a gift from it
boughs less costly than might be the case if
more formal presentation had to be made
Indeed, it is quite fascinating shopping
for the dainty trifles that can be given from
the tree to the grown-up guests expected,
late years the Christmas tree has become an
important asset of Covent Garden’s annual
trade.

CHRISTMAS THOUGHTS

Yet Christ hath won the victory,

For life and love’s simplicity.

—Old Carol.

December, 1926: Vol. X., No. 4

Canadian Railroader , Montreal

Life of Rails Depends Upon Method

of Laying

Ra.l Damage Often Direct Result of Rough Handlmg

Many persons do not realize how much
damage can be done to rails by careless
handling, but it is a fact that many rail
failures are the direct result of careless
unloading, a careless stroke of a spike
maul or other act of thoughtlessness.
For example, on one road where all
failed rails are held for inspection by a
representative of the chief engineer, it
has been found that in 75 per cent of the
split web rails, where the crack is down
in the middle of the web, or angling
across the web, spike maul marks are to
be found on the web, usually on the side
opposite the beginning of the crack.

Blows Fracture Rails

Where blows from a spike maul in the
hands of a careless man are so plainly
evident in the web of a rail as to cause
failure, there can be little doubt that
similar blows on other parts of the de-
fective rails also cause failures at times.
The only remedy for this is careful
handling.

Rail-Laying Methods

One of the most important things in
the life of a rail is the manner in which
that rail is laid on the ties. By manner
of laying is meant:

1. Whether or not it is laid with pro-
per space between rails to take into
account their expansion in hot weather.

2. Whether or not the low ties are sur-
faced up promptly or shims used to pre-
vent the kinking or twisting of the new
rails.

3. Whether or not the new rails are
properly anchored to preserve the dis-
tribution of the expansion space.

4. Whether the proper jointing of the
rails is being done.

5. Whether or not the rails are canted
inward so as to prevent a normal bear-
ing of the head to the tread of the
wheels, or whether they are laid with the
axis of the rail straight up and down re-
gardless of the bearing of the wheels.

Factors in Rail Laying.

The first factor in the correct laying
of rails is to see that sufficient space is
provided between the rail ends to take
care of the natural expansion in hot
weather. This is of the utmost import-
ance when rails are laid in cold weather,
and of less importance as the weather
conditions, when the rail is being laid,
approach the maximum temperature
which the rail will undergo in its life-
time of service.

The second factor bearing on the cor-
rect laying of rails— that is, the prompt
surfacing up of low ties— must be given
careful attention to avoid damage to the
rails by bending or kinking, in the same
spots where the old rails were placed.

The third factor, the prompt anchor-
ing of rails in the proper place to pre-
vent creeping” with the consequent
bunching, causing tight joints at some
localities and open joints at other places.

The fourth factor mentioned, which,
by the way, is really a grouping of sev-
eral factors, covers the prompt and cor-
rect bolting up of joints, and doing other
work in connection with putting the
newly laid rail in the best possible con-
d.tion. The importance of providing for
the expansion of the rails is shown by
the fact that a rail 33 feet long will in-
increase 1/16 inch in length for each 25
degrees in rise of temperature, and a rail
39 feet in length will increase 1/16 inch
in length for each 20 degrees increase
in temperature.

The fifth factor, that of canting the
rails inward, is at least of equal import-
ance to the necessity for providing for
the increased expansion of the rails.
Those opposing the use of canted tie
plates and the resulting canting of rail,
and consequently defending the laying
of rail straight up and down, are not de-
fending an old and long established
practice, as they may think, for, pre-
vious to the use of treated ties it was
the general practice to cant the rail in-
ward by adzing the ties enough to make
the rail head show the wheel bearing in
the centre of its face.

Vertical Rail Practice

When railroads began using treated
ties the adzing was found to be detri-
mental as it bit into the untreated por-
tions of the wood. Then the practice of
laying the vertical steel was adopted for
the protection of the ties and without a
thought for the damage which it might
do to the rails and the wheels. The prac-
tice was not the result of careful thought
or well considered experiment, as is often
said.

The results of vertical laying are:

The mashing and wearing down of the
gauge side of the rail head until the face
of the rail approaches the line of taper of
the wheel.

The rolling out of a bead, or “hang-
over,” along the gauge edge of the head
of the rail.

Within the past five years a new type
of rail failure has become noticeable,
in the form of a crack in the web at, or
very near, the line of connection of the
fillet, under the head, with the top of
the web. Investigations have proved
that this kind of failure is due to eccen-
tric loading of the rail.

Contact Wear Problems

The constant wear and grind of the
wheels due to contact with the rails is
bound to be at a point of contact, and the
depth of wear is governed by the width
of the bearing. With rails laid vertical,
a new wheel must make contact with a
new rail well toward the inside edge of
the rail and near the flange side of that
wheel.

Canted Rails

Because of these reasons it is neces-
sary, if the greatest possible life is to
be obtained from the rails, that they be
laid canted to the same extent as the
taper of the car wheels which will come
in contact with them. To do this and at
the same time protect the ties, canted
tie plates should be put into use.

ANONYMOUS LETTER WRITING

Recent outbreaks in various parts of
the country of a plague of anonymous
letter writing recall a story of that emi-
nent Nonconformist divine, Dr. Parker,
who made a neat score on one occasion
against the writer of one of these epis-
tles. Whilst in his pulpit one Sunday
morning at the City Temple, a note was
handed to him by the verger, and upon
opening it he found scrawled across a
sheet of paper the word “Fool. ,, Rising
immediately to the occasion, the great
preacher exhibited it to his congrega-
tion, and said: “In my time I have re-
ceived much anonymous correspondence
in which the writer has written the letter
but forgotten to sign his name. But
here is a stranger thing — a man has
signed his name and omitted to write the
letter!”

An American locomotive firm has suc-
cessfully underbid a German organiza-
tion for a Brazilian order of 17 loco-
motives.

Canadian Railroader , Montreal

December , 1926: Vol. X., No. 4

Unclaimed Millions In British Banks

A STORY is told of a former customer,
an old lady, of a well-known hank.
For a long period she had £28,000
($140,000) standing to her credit, and at least
once a year she drove up to the hank, asked
for the manager, drew a cheque for the entire
amount, and, after counting the notes and
checking the interest paid it in again with the
assurance that she was perfectly satisfied.

About twelve years ago she ceased to visit
the baiiA, and since then nothing has been
heard of her. The £28,000, plus interest, is
still lying there.

Similar eccentricities are not so uncommon
as might be supposed. Such curious whims,
the desire for secrecy in money matters and
the strange chances that so often make life
a great adventure, are among the causes of
the accumulation of unclaimed money in
banks.

Eccentricity commonly takes the form of
opening accounts in assumed names, some of
which are palpably fictitious. A London
chemist, when on his deathbed, told his wife
of several names of this kind he had used for
banking purposes, including “K. N. Pepper/’
obviously a phonetic rendering of “cayenne
pepper”, or, in full, “King Napoleon Pepper”.

He gave her a note signed “K. N. Pepper”,
authorising her to draw the account standing
in that name. After his death she obtained it,
but not until she had brought an action
against the bank, which refused to give up
the money on the ground that there was in-
sufficient evidence to identify the depositor.

When a man has two or more accounts it
often happens that at least one of them is
overlooked after his death. An instance
occurred in India, where a Scottish mariner
who traded between Bombay and Calcutta
left money in both places. His family re-
ceived the fund in Bombay, but not that in
Calcutta.

Twenty years later a solicitor accidentally
discovered the second account, with the
result that the next-of-kin received a further
£400. To open accounts in assumed names is
folly unless a proper record is made of them.

Life’s chances also add to the unclaimed
gold in bankers’ coffers. During a debate in
the British House of Commons it was stated
that a man lost at sea during the War, had
deposited about £400 in some bank, and that
his next-of-kin had been unable to discover
the establishment.

Tracing the Heir

Through a more remarkable combination of
circumstances another deposit is still un-
claimed. A man called at a bank to open an
account, bringing with him several hundred
pounds. Pending the verification of his refer-
ences, he was not given either a cheque-book
or a pass-book. And though he left the money,
he did not get a receipt for it. Crossing the
road on his way home, he was knocked down
and killed, and as there was nothing in his
possession to show that he had deposited the

money at the bank, it has not been claimed
to this day.

Banks never advertise their windfalls, nor
do they, as a rule, make inquiries concerning
the ownership of dormant funds in their
possession. They pursue the same policy in

RAINY SUNDAY

D O you remember the day in Febru-
ary

That it rained and rained?

It was a Sunday and we stayed in doors
beside the fire,

And just when the sun should have been
setting,

A sulphurus, cinnamon candle
Was lit somewhere in the heavens,

And you went out and called to me,
“Come!”

And we stood on the terrace and looked
about us,

On a world blanketed with black gauze.
Rubbed to a dull lustre of lemon and
silver

Through taupe and gold chiffon!

It was just like living a fairy tale!

The bare trees had been dipped in mer-
cury!

The wet road running by the door
Was an onyx and platinum path that
might have led to the moon!

Drops, dull as cat’s eyes,

Dripped, dripped,

Everywhere ....

We looked at each other;

Our flesh was the color of old ivory!
We wanted to exclaim, but instead
We only caught our breath and stared. .
It only lasted a minute,

And we laughed afterward,

But I tell you,

I should not have been surprised
If the Angel Gabriel had appeared beside
us,

Or if a silver-green dragon belching al-
mond-colored fire
Had lunged at us down the lane!

regard to deposits of scrip, shares, mortgages,
plate, and the like.

An Irish peer once heard at Melbourne (of
all places in the world) that a quantity of
plate belonging to him lay in the vaults of a
Dublin bank, where it had been deposited by
one of his ancestors nearly a century earlier.
It was handed over to him immediately he
applied for it, though until then its custo-
dians had said nothing whatever about it.

Sometimes, however, a bank goes out of its
way to trace the persons entitled to a dormant

account. A remarkabe instance occurred
about ten years ago. In 1828 a gentleman
gave his solicitors power of attorney to receive
any dividends due to him in winding up the
affairs of some bankers who had failed. Four
years later the solicitors paid into their
client’s account £125 16s., and then £94 7s.;
but for some reason the money was left un-
touched. It remained in the bank for more
than eighty years, interest being added to it
annually, and eventually grew into $1,400.
The bank then made an investigation, which
resulted in the money being paid out to a
Worcestershire vicar.

In connection with savings banks, special
circumstances, in addition to the ordinary
factors, operate to swell unclaimed money.
Many depositors are as little versed in affairs
as was a certain woman who left £200 un-
touched for more than thirty years l>ecausc,
as she explained, she had lost her deposit
book and thought that her money went
with it.

Other depositors are extremely secretive.
A certain woman, on opening a Ixix after her
husband’s death, found in it two Post Office
Savings Bank books, one in his own name,
and the other in the name of a Tom Fox,
whose address, as given, was a non-existent
number in the same street. The accounts
amounted to £340 Is. 2d.

As nothing could be discovered about Tom
Fox, the presumption was that both accounts
belonged to the deceased. So the money was
paid to his widow.

Intestate’s estates, again, are not looked
after as carefully as they are when the value
reaches hundreds of thousands of pounds. A
newly-married couple opened a joint account,
to which both paid in weekly. When they
had saved a nice sum the man deserted his
wife and went to the Colonies, whence he
wrote to say that he would never return.

Nevertheless, she continued to save, think-
ing that sooner or later he would surely come
back. But she died lonely and forsaken, and,
as she had no relations, the money she saved
with such high hopes has never been with-
drawn.

What is the total sum lying in l>anks un-
claimed ? It is impossible to give any definite
figures. In the Post Office Savings Bank alone
there are millions of dormant accounts and,
though many of them are small, their aggr
gate value is considerable.

Reports show that between 200,000
and 400,000 cars of fresh, dried and
canned fruit are shipped annually from
California.

Believed to be the largest single
amount ever added to a railroad “con-
science” fund, a $100 bill was contained
in an anonymous letter to the Pennsyl-
vania System.

TO DEAD LEAVES

These leaves have seen the swallow and the rose ,

And violet tides that wept at eventide ,

Past saffron moons they whispered ever wide ,

Kissing the amber of the daylight's close.

When sparrows nested and the south wind goes
Through Spring's domains to where the Summers hide ,
These leaves , then green , begemmed the countryside ,
Filtering with gold and jade the afterglows.

Then comes Dame Autumn with her fingers brown ,
And the wild wood witch tearing leaf from tree ,

Calling the winds the amber spoil to cast.

And the red leaves are shifted up and down.

In russet , amber , yellow as may be.

These leaves that hold the memories of the past.

PETRONELLA O'DONNELL.

Canadian Railroader Football Club

Back Raw; Messrs Bain, Pollock, Bradley, MacKenzie, McFarlane, Pearson, Mould, Newsam. Middle: T. Todd, Jones, Neasmith, J. Todd,
Bonnemer. Front : Davies. Queen, McBride, Traynor, Harrowing- Rossiter, the club’s regular inside left, was absent through illness

when photograph was taken, Traynor playing in that position.

=r ^ g 3 £ - <

1 m* if M: M-

s* 3 M-

je >

iff

: ,U

li Ills

* i S

ts. ^

¥ *

Canadian Railroader, Montreal 24 December. 1926: Vol. X, No. 4

December , 1926: Vol. X., No. 4

Canadian Railroader , Montreal

Footballers Have Successful

Season

Canadian Railroader Football Team Given Promotion
to Second Division of Montreal League
for Season of 1926

F OLLOWING up the very successful
season of 1925, when the Railroader
Football Team won the Champion-
ship of the Mid-Week League, and the
Macoon Challenge Cup, the club was
given promotion to the Second Division
of the Montreal League for season 1926.
It was doubtful if the calibre of the
team was good enough for such a strong
ieague. On the other hand, it was a hard
task to break up a winning combination
that had gone the whole of the previous
season with only a loss of one point, a
drawn game. After considerable dis-
cussion it was decided to start the same
team that had operated the past year.

It was realized that a better-equipped
ground would have to be secured, No-
mads’ ground eventually being leased for
the season. After several practice games
the season opened with Railroaders en-
tertaining Fairmount as visitors. Fair-
mount was quite a young team, but had
a reputation as a hard team to beat.
After quite a tussle the Railroaders
emerged victors by a score of 5 to 2.
This winning form was continued until
the team met Victorias, who were run-
ning the Railroaders a close race for the
leadership of the league. Victorias ran
out victors by a score of 2-1.

The Railroaders later in the season
avenged this defeat by beating the Vic-
torias 4 to 1 on the latter’s ground. The
season was -half gone when it was seen
that the only danger of being headed
came from the Canadian Spool team,
whose headquarters are in Maisonneuve
and were considered just about strong
enough to nose out the Railroaders. The
first game between these two teams was
in the nature of a “Derby” day. After
a hard, strenuous game the Railroaders
emerged victorious by 3 to 1.

From then on there was no serious op-
position to the Railroaders’ position at
the head of the league, which they event-
ually won in a canter. The return game
ended with Spool on the short side of a
2 to 1 score.

But for the defeat by Victorias the
Railroaders would have finished the sea-
son with a perfect record. The record
was; Played 14, won 13, lost 1, drawn 0.
Goals scored 68, against 16.

There was only one serious accident
during the whole season, Joe Gross-
mith in the Victoria game which was

lost, severing the cords behind his knee
and being put out of the game the rest
of the season.

In the Frontenac Cup games the Rail-
roaders beat Fairmount and Emard in
succession to meet Canadian Spool again
in the final game of the season, played
before a large crowd on *the C.P.R.
Angus Shop grounds. The two teams
battled to a 0-0 tie ten minutes from
time, when the Railroaders scored the
deciding counter, which gave them pos-
session of the beautiful Frontenac Cup
for one year. This trophy was donated
by Mayor Beaubien of Outremont for
annual competition. The success of the
team is undoubtedly due to the splendid
feeling of co-operation and good fellow-
ship which exists between the players
and committee not only on the field of
play but as workmates in the plant of
Canadian Railroader, Limited.

Players who helped the club through-
out the season were: Goal, H. Nicholson,
and Geo. McFarlane; Backs, J. McKen-
zie, F. Rowland and A. Pearson; Half
backs, F. Young, J. Todd, J. Neasmith,
T. McCutcheon and N. Massey; For-
wards, J. Davies, T. Queen, J. Tingman,
J. McBride, J. Rossiter, S. Harrowing
and S. Jones.

Committee, Pres., 0. C. Montgomery;
H. Mould, L. Pollock, J. Jenkinis, J.
Traynor, G. Bonnemer, and W. A. New-
sam, Sec.-Treas., Teddy Davies, Trainer.

A New Song Book

An interesting book Which is prom-
ised by J. M. Dent and Sons, Ltd. (Lon-
don and Toronto), for about January
10, 1927, is “Canadian Folk Songs — Old
and New”), selected and translated by
Mr. J. Murray Gibbon.

O NLY within recent years have
we begun to realize how rich is
the treasury of lovely melodies
associated with the folk songs of French
Canada. These melodies date back in
many cases three hundred years and to
a time when all Europe was, so to speak,
a nest of singing birds. The words of
the songs are also full of charm, but
hitherto these have not been accessible
in singable translations. It is to remedy
this omission that Mr. J. Murray Gib-

bon has selected thirty of the most pop-
ular chansons and provided English
versions which not only convey the spirit
of the originals but also are wedded
closely to the music and are easy to
sing. They have been submitted in this
connection to the criticism of several
well known professional singers, who
have expressed their complete satisfac-
tion.

The melodies have been handed down
from generation to generation purely as
melodies, without harmonization, but in
order to conform to modern taste and
to popularize the songs in English-speak-
ing communities, harmonies have been
supplied by two accomplished musicians,
Mr. Geoffrey O’Harra and Mr. Oscar
O’Brien. Mr. O’Hara is the composer of
such well known songs as “Give a Man
a Horse He Can Ride,” “There is No
Death,” “Little Bateese” and “The
Wreck of the Julie Plante.” Mr. O’Brien
is well known throughout French Canada
for his beautiful harmonizations of
French chansons as well as for original
compositions.

The selection includes not only the
old traditional songs brought with the
early settlers from France to Canada, but
also more recent folk songs created by
the lumberman and habitants native to
Canada. For music is a living art in
French Canada, and songs illustrating
the life of the people are still being
created.

In the selection the translator has been
greatly assisted by Mr. Charles Mar-
chand, the most popular folk song
singers in the Province of Quebec, whose
life work it is to keep alive and foster
the singing of these folk songs among
his fellow countrymen. Mr. Marchand
supplies some valuable notes of advice
to singers.

Charmingly illustrated with decorative
title page and headpieces by Frank
Johnston, A.R.C.A., CANADIAN FOLK
SONGS— OLD AND NEW, is a book
which any one will be proud to possess.
The music is clear and legible, the type
easy to read, and the format most con-
venient.

The original French words are printed
side by side with the English versions,
and both the translator’s preface and
Mr. Marchand’s notes are printed in
both languages.

Waterville, Me. — William Peterson,
here, is 83 years old, but he still is able
to lay claim to being the champion wall
paper hanger in the town. He has just
completed the job .of hanging 600 rolls.
Peterson smokes all the time, and says
he took a drink in the days when it was
obtainable.

Canadian Railroader. Montreal

December, 1926: Vol. X, No. 4

The Pun

P ROFESSOR Stephen Leacock has
poured scorn on the English pre-
dilection for making puns, a form
of humor, he declares, unintelligible as
such in the New World.

We can plead tradition, but perhaps
Professor Leacock is justified, for even
the most amusing pun does cause the
smile that is wry, tinctured faintly with
irritation; and the worthy John Dennis,
who vowed that a man -who would make
a pun would pick a pocket, must have
the sympathy of many for his peevish
outburst.

And yet more witty sayings are puns
than puns are witty sayings. There is
the famous grace spoken at dinner by
Charles II.'s Court Jester: “Great praise
be to God and little Laud to the devil/’
One imagines the stately archbishop’s
irritation in this case!

A pun attributed to Gregory the Great
on seeing British captives for sale at

An Ancient Form of Wit

Rome was “Not Angles, but angels,” so
we may assume that the habit was not
unknown in those days, whether regard-
ed as wit or otherwise. In mediaeval
times, too, punning must have been rife,
as witness the humorous heraldic in-
stances. In Henry III.’s reign Adam
de Swynebourne was granted three boars
as his armorial cognizance, the family
of Knyvette three silver knives, and that
of Hopton a lion hopping on a tun, all
undeniable puns though the last is very
crude wit. However, a glance through
Fairbairn will reveal scores of similar
examples.

Punning seems to have reached a fever-
heat about fifty years ago with the pub-
lication of “Puniana,” under the editor-
ship of the Hon. Hugh Rowley, a two
series “magnum opus” containing, ac-
cording to the publisher’s announcement,
over 10,000 outrageous puns — and the
adjective is fully merited. There are

puns in Italian, French, and English,
some of them puerile in the extreme!
though others can perhaps claim in-
genuity if not humor. Thus: —

This is what you Macauley riddle.
If you saw a house on fire what three
celebrated authors would you feel
disposed to name?

Ans : — Dickens — Howitt — Burns!
Or:—

If the tops of the Tower were out
of repair what two historical charac-
ters would they mention?

Ans.: — Wat Tyler Will Rufus.

And so on, “ad lib.” We will suppose
our fathers laughed even if we cannot.
It is more refreshing to recall the “bon
mot” attributed to a certain witty cele-
brity, who, on being asked if he had
ever been to Cork, replied, “No, but I’ve
seen many ‘drawings’ of it.”

But of the making of puns there can
be no end.

BY SUPERB NEW LOCOMOTIVE

American AssociaOon f of ht RaTl < rold eX Sup€rin*endents me took n ^° ntinen t’ debates to the 33rd annual convention of the

at the Chateau Frontenac at the invitation of the Canadian f- JJ u ? bec at * be termination of their convention in Montreal and stayed
monuments of the Ancient Capital took ^ look It the fLmoul Mont Jfr* visited the shrine of Ste. Anne de Beaupre, saw the
their stay. But the subject of their conversation on nnH ®J' tn * o r enc > Falls, and had a good time generally over the Saturday of

What they admired and cou d not sufficiently discuss and talk aLutVa^th ** n °- 1 alt ,? fretl \? r the duties and attraction of Quebec City.
No. 2325. y aiscuss and talk about »as the engine that drew their 14-all-steel car C.P.R. train-engine

on the Quebec run. W ith its iend'er 0 ^^ |^|jf ’n US ^ by tbe # C * P *5*. and employed on their trip for the first time

equipment along the Quebec tracks have had to be 1 strengthened Th a J d - l°* \ h Q ‘S, Co1 ^ SSal rai,s - Midges and general

that its boiler pressure is 2001bs. to the square inch- its driving whl u **s bui.t m 1923 and notable facts in connection with it are
gallons of water and twelve tons of coal. ’ K heels ha\e a diameter of 7a inches and its tender holds 8.000 imperial

it pulled out of Windsor street Station*, Montreal^ 15 All of* the'nve 1 *^* ° f . superinten<lent9 who hft ve strolled up to inspect it before
was over. lhe f, ' e hur| dred superintendents gave it a thorough inspection before the trip

December , 1926: Vol. X., No. 4

Canadian Railroader , Montreal

Annual Report of Bank of Montreal
Shows Marked Business Expansion

AS CurrenTLo and *1 8S* oS' 3 Ga ‘ n for the Year of over $26,000,000—

Loans at $322,8 d 5,265 represent an increase of $52,000,000—

Deposits are up over $24 000,000 for the year, and now total

$656,259,466

The Annual Statement of the Bank of
Montreal for the fiscal year ending Oc-
tober 30th, issued recently, contains a
number of interesting features. Share-
holders have reason to regard it as a
most satisfactory exhibit. Of perhpas
greatest general import is the striking
evidence it affords of a substantial im-
provement in general business through-
out Canada. With more business of-
fering, profits have shown a tendency
to increase and assets have climbed to
much higher levels. At the same time,
the usual strong position of the Bank
has been fully maintained.

Total assets now stand at $781,525,145,
up from $755,147,876 at the end of the
previous year, representing a gain of
over $26,000,000. Of this, the total li-
quid assets amount to $424,919,084, equal
to 60.35% of liabilities to the public.
Included in the liquid assets are cash,
Dominion notes, and deposit in Central
Gold Reserves, amounting to $100,411,633
or 14.25% of public liabilities, and call
loans and balances with other banks of
$180,670,613. Dominion and Provincial
Government securities stand at $79,157,-
614. Railway and other bonds, deben-
tures and stocks total $4,463,251, and
cheques on other banks $26,337,108. The
principal changes are in the holdings of
Dominion and Provincial Government se-
curities, a reduction in these indicating

a gi eater demand for funds by general
business.

As a result of the greater volume of
business, current loans have advanced
to $322,855,265, as compared with $270,-
087,143, last year, an increase of more
than $52,000,000. Current loans in Can-
ada have grown to $252,338,858, up from
$225,219,598, a year ago, and loans to
c.ties, towns and municipalities are now
$17,074,131, as against $15,983,360. In-
dication of steady growth is shown in
the total of deposits which now stand
at the large sum of $656,259,466, as
compared with $631,454,427, an increase
during the year of $24,805,000.

The profit and loss account shows that
as the result of a greater volume of
business, profits are well above those
of the previous year. These have per-
mitted of the payment of the regular
dividends and bonus, and, after making
special reservation for the bank prem-
ises, of a substantial amount being

Total Assets

Liquid Assets

Total Current Loans

Dominion Notes

Government Securities

Railway bonds and securities

Deposits not bearing interest

Deposits bearing interest

Bank Premises

added to the profit and loss balance.
Profits for the year, after making de-
duction of charges of management and
making full provision for all bad and
doubtful debts, were $4,978,133, equal
to 16.64% on capital and to 8.24% on
the combined capital, reserves and un-
divided profits. This compares w.ith
$4 601,962, in the previous year. The
profits when added to the balance
brought forward made a total amount
available for distribution of $5,574,921.
Th s was appropriated as follows: divi-
dends and bonus $4 188 338, provision for
taxes, Dominion Government, $319,167,
reserve for bank premise $300,000, leav-
ing a balance of $767,416 to be carried
forward.

In keeping with the sound policy of
the Bank the premises account has been
v. ritten down $350,000 during the year.

The principal accounts, with compari-
sons with those of the previous year,
show as follows: —

1926

1925

$781,525,145

$755,147,876

424,919,084

450,459,068

322,855,265

270,087,143

50,884,509

49,962,661

79,157,614

96,542,710

4,463,251

3,666,616

132,034,727

1 52,552,338

515,925,640

471,845,303

11,800,000

12,150,000

Planning Your Income

J T is not so very long ago since, full
of the romance of life, I left be-
hind me my career of singleness and
took my place with no small feeling of
pride as a young housewife, writes
Evelyn White.

How well I remember my first al-
lowance being handed to me by my hus-
band! What joy I felt and how generous
I thought he was! Surely with such a
sum, I thought, I should be able to work
wonders! Naturally there were a few
things I wished specially to buy for the
home in addition to the general upkeep,
and these I purchased immediately
Alas! in much less time *han my money

was supposed to last, I had reluctantly
to ask for more.

Yes, the allowance should have been
sufficient; it was even generous as I
have since discovered. What then was
wrong? The fault lay in the fact that
I had embarked upon haphazard
thoughtless spending. I had neither
planned my income nor restricted my
spending, consequently I soon learned
that the worry of making ends meet is
a very real one and that the joy of
housekeeping depends more upon the
wise apportioning of the income than
on the size of it; indeed, it is easy to
see that the housewife with a small,
well-planned income may be in a much

happier state than she with a larger in-
come where spending is carelessly un-
dertaken.

You will like to know how I removed
difficulties and worries. I first of all
set about apportioning my income under
various headings. This was a s : mplc
matter, but it was not so easy to spend
according to my apportionment. How-
ever, this mattered little for I was
learning in the best school — the school
of experience, and I really enjoyed keep-
ing my budget, noticing at the end of a
period where I had exceeded my fore-
cast, where I could economize and where
I could allow a little more latitude. Soon
I had a simple system which helped tre-
mendously in the smooth working of the
home and in the right disposal of the
home exchequer.

Canadian Railroader, Montreal

December, 1926: Vol. X., No. 4

HERE ON 3000-FAMILY SCHEME

‘‘We are working on the 3000-family scheme,” said Lord Clarendon, Under Secretary
of State for Dominion Affairs, who, with T. C. Macnaughton, C.M.G., C.B.E vice-
chairman of the overseas settlement committee, lately visited Canada to see for’ them-
selves how the scheme is working out.

The idea is to settle 3000 families on the soil and to give them a preparatory train-
ing in Canadian agricultural methods. They are given this training in England before
they sail and that the idea has caught on is evidenced by the fact that last year 460
neTt yea£ ame ** COmpared with 1200 this y ear - The balance will be in Canada by

The Earl of Clarendon, who is the right-hand figure in the photograph, which was
taken in the Montreal Windsor Street station, and Mr. Macnaughton. travelled across
the Dominion, visiting Ottawa, Toronto, Fort William, Winnipeg, Calgary and the

I 3C1IIC L Oflst,

In connection with his visit it is interesting to recall that prior to the war His
Lordship operated a farm at Pickering, Ont. " 1S

Music That Makes Them Cry

W HEN the director of a film is prepar-
ing to take a “star” through some
scenes in which there are emotional
moments, tears, and so on, his first move is
to find out the particular melody to which the
“star” reacts — what tune makes him, or
her, cry.

The studio orchestra is then called, and
when the direction of the scene begins, this
band of musicians— probably hidden behind
a convenient piece of scenery— plays the
special tune that invariably makes the “star”
weep.

One of the remarkable things about music
and emotion is that a tune does not lose its

power of drawing tears after one or two repe-
titions. If a player cries once when a melody
is played, the tears will, in practically every
case, come again, even if the piece is repeated
twenty times.

Studio orchestras are vastly important now-
adays, and when the “big” players go on
location, the orchestra goes, too, sometimes
journeying hundreds of miles and adding to
the film’s expense sheet by thousands of
dollars.

* * *

There is a little Polish melody, called
The Last Sigh,” that never fails to reduce
Pola Negri to bitter tears. She hears it

very often, for in the majority of the films
she makes, she has to depict great sorrow.

An exception to the remark made above
tl at a melody will always draw tears if it
has once done so, is found in the case of
Gloria Swanson. If she has wept once to
a tune, she cannot weep again to the same
music. So her orchestra-leader is kept busv
finding fresh melodies to make this cinema
queen feel unhappy.

The most successful method, he finds, is to
change from one old-world melody to another.
The haunting sadness of old Scottish and Irish
songs seems to affect Miss Swanson more
‘deeply than anything else.

Jackie Coogan needs music for his emotional
scenes, but not necessarily sad music. He can
play a tearful scene to a cheerful tune such
as “Barney Google”. He says that the sound
of a violin makes him want to cry, and apart
from “Barney Google”, he likes a song writ-
ten by his father: “You’ll Never Know What
a Good Fellow’ Eve Been.”

Simple songs have many followers. May
Busch is an up-to-the-minute girl, but she
always cries when she hears “Home, Sweet
Home.”

Conrad Nagel and Norma Shearer produce
wonderfully sad scenes to the strains of
“Madrigal of May.”

Lew' Cody likes “Remembering” — though
“villains like Mr. Cody are not supposed
to have hearts at all!— and Aileen Pringle’s
favorite tune is the popular “Memory Lane.”

* * *

Living up to the notion that comedians
are sad folk in reality, Syd Chaplin does his
best w T ork to the sound of “Little Grey
Home in the West.”

One famous “star”, Betty Compson, can
provide her own music, for she was a violinist
before she became a film player. So when
she w’ants to become thoroughly sad for a
special scene, she takes her violin and plays a
throbbing air until the right mood has stolen
over her.

“Parted,” that lovely song in which both
words and music are full of sadness, and the
song, “Grey Days,” are the tunes Leatrice
Joy asks for when she is acting an emotional

scene.

When John Barrymore was filming “Beau
Brummell”, he asked the studio band to
play “None but the Lonely Heart”.

* * *

Cheery Reginald Denny, the Englishman
who is hailed as one of the finest young
screen players of to-day, has to be serious,
even soulful at times, when he is facing the
camera. On these occasions, he likes to
hear music from “Rose Marie”. Laura La
Plante, who has been Mr. Denny’s leading
lady in several films, likes the good old south-
ern melodies, such as “Swanee River” and
“My Old Kentucky Home”.

However, when the sad scenes have been
“shot”, all the players agree that there is
nothing like ten minutes of popular dance
music to refresh them and bring back their
smiles once more.

December, 1926: Vol. X , No. 4

Canadian Railroader, Montreal

“The Head of
Jove Himself"

T HE earth gives up its buried art at an
astonishing rate. It is not enough
that no longer ago than April, Pompeii
should yield a statue of a youth attributed to
Phidias but now in Cyrene, on the shores of
Africa about opposite Crete, there come to
light fragments of a colossal head which is
believed to be no less than that of the Olym-
pian Zeus, and also by the great Phidias.
If this be so, the world possesses at last a
replica of the lost masterpiece of Phidias in
the temple of Zeus at Olympia. Described
by the “Illustrated London News” the find
came about in this way:

“The great excavations carried on by the
Italian Department for Colonial Affairs at
Cyrene have lately brought to light a wonder-
ful Graeco-Roman reproduction of the head
of the celebrated statue of the Olympian
Zeus of Phidias. Of this miracle of ancient
sculpture— the grandest production of the
grandest Greek artist— nothing had been
handed down to us but the descriptions of
Pausanias and others, the unanimous admira-
tion of the ancient world, and a representa-
tion on some Elean coins, chiefly on a silver
one now in the British Museum. The Olym-
pian statue was of colossal size, over 40 feet
high, although seated, and was wrought
entirely in gold and ivory on a throne of
ebony enriched with enameled colors. The
head was singularly powerful, and the face
majestic, but calm and serene. These
characteristics are to be seen almost identical-
ly in the Cyrenaean copy. This epoch-making
discovery is due to the distinguished Roman
archaeologist, Dr. Giacomo Guidi, the new
Inspector of Antiquities in Cyrenaica, who,
excavating the courtyard of the so-called
Great Temple, facing the Acropolis, collected
hundreds of small fragments, which might
easily have escaped the attention of a com-
mon explorer. Piecing them together with
marvellous patience, he produced an almost
entire reconstruction of the magnificent head.
Further excavations may bring to light not
only the minute pieces still wanting, but also
the remains of the body. An inscription
unearthed by Dr. Guidi among the remains
of the hitherto nameless temple confirms the
attribution of the statue, stating that this
was the great temple erected by the city to
the Olympian Zeus.”

A few additional facts are given in the
New York “Herald Tribune,” which signalizes
the event in an editorial:

“The excavations at Cyrene which have
been carried on for so long have just brought
to light fragments of a statue which, if it can
be authenticated, will be of the greatest
interest to students of art and archeology.
This is no less than a head of Zeus which
it is believed is a replica of the famous statue
bv Phidias which was set up in the temple
at Olympia. This statue was an enormous
work, executed in gold and ivory over a core

of wood, the ivory simulating flesh, the gold,
draperies, but, like almost all the work of
the great sculptor, it has completely disap-
peared, a fact which makes the recent discov-
ery of even more importance. Phidias’s two
greatest works were his Zeus at Olympia and
his Athene at Athens, nothing of which
remains but their fame, some pictures of
them on coins, a few indifferent copies and
written descriptions. Pausanias described
the ivory-and-gold Zeus, an enormous seated
figure, in his Guide Book to Greece.

“Cyrene, with its wonderful climate, shel-
tered by mountains in the south from the
scorching winds from the Sahara and having
cool sea breezes blowing in from the north,
was a city already famous and flourishing in
the time of the Roman Empire. Its exten-
sive ruins still attest its former magnificence.
The remains of a great temple have been
found, dedicated to the Olympian Zeus, and
it was among these ruins that the pedestal
and fragments of a gigantic head were un-
earthed. If this should prove to be a genuine
copy of the Phidias Zeus we shall have for
the first time an idea of what the original
really looked like.”

Restoration as well as discovery is much
in the air to-day. Alexander Philadelpheus,
a noted Greek archaeologist, is making vigor-
ous efforts to have some of the Elgin marbles
brought back to Athens from the British
Museum where they were deposited by Lord

Elgin at the beginning of the last century
In press dispatches we read:

“Lord Byron once called down the curse
of Minerva upon the head of Lord Elgin for
taking the marbles. Mr. Philadelpheus is
eager that at least the missing caryatid and
the corner column of Justice of Erechtheion
shall be returned, both as an act of fairness
and an architectural necessity. Even in Lord
Elgin’s time there was a legend , which was
embodied in the historical play, ‘Nereid of
the Castle/ that the remaining caryatids,
princesses turned to stone, wailed loudly at
night for their lost sister, unhappy in the
gloom of London and longing for the sunny
Grecian sky.”

Mnemonics

Two women were passing a butcher's shop
where a pig’s head was on display, with a
lemon in its mouth.

“There, Liz,” exclaimed one of the women,
“that reminds me that I promised to get a
new pipe for Joe.” — “The Progressive Gro-
cer.”

“That woman over there used to sing in
the lion’s cage at the Tivoli.”

“Has she retired now ?”

“Yes. The Society for the Prevention of
Cruelty to Animals stepped in.” — “Northern
Daily Telegraph.”

Canadian Railroader , Montreal

December, 1926: Vol. X., No. 4

The founding of the St. Jean Bap-
tiste Society in Montreal was recently
commemorated in that city by the mem-
bers of that society. A tablet, the gift
of Victor Morin, former president-gen-
eral of the society, was affixed to the
walls of the Canadian Pacific Railway
Windsor Street Station, Montreal. Large
crowds of people gathered at the un-
veiling and entered with zest into the
singing, which was led by a band.

Several speeches were made by pro-
minent citizens and aldermen of the
city of Montreal including F. L. Wank-
lyn, former general executive assistant
of the Canadian Pacific Railway, who
was representing that company.

The strange coincidence of the story is that it is exactly 92 years ago that the
founding of the society took place in gardens on the site of which the Windsor Sta-
tion now stands.

For Bravery in
Peace Time

Medals Awarded to Civilians

M EDALLIC art, not inaptly de-
fined as a link between sculp-
ture and painting, has been a
subject of more than ordinary attention
lately, as a result of the awards to offi-
cers and men of the “President Roose-
velt, n whose epic rescues from the “An-
tinoe” evoked world-wide comment. But
although the striking of medals to com-
memorate great deeds or special events
has long been an established custom, re-
latively little is known by most people of
the various medals in use at the present
time.

There is, for example,, the silver medal
of the London Fire Brigade, awarded
exclusively for extreme bravery in sav-
ing life, or in attempting to save it, in
cases of fire. Only a dozen or so men

possess the medal, which is known as
the “Firemen's V.C." It is invested with
so much mystery, indeed, that not even
its holders know that it has been con-
ferred on them until the actual moment
of presentation.

The Carnegie Gold Medal for Courage,
endowed through the medium of the
Hero Fund Commission, is equally rarely
won, only eighteen having been awarded
since the fund was established twenty-
two years ago. To qualify, a man must
distinguish himself by an act of heroism
“of the very highest order"; his claim
to the distinction is judged by a special
tribunal, and if the medal is granted he
may also receive a handsome monetary
gift, according to his circumstances.

It was not so very long ago that the
King received at Buckingham Palace the
seven living holders of the “Lifeboat
V.C.," an honored decoration of which
the very name is unfamiliar to the ma-
jority of people. This medal, a gold one,

is the highest award of the Royal Na-
tional Lifeboat Institution; it is given
for gallant rescues or attempted rescues
from shipwreck. In the hundred years
of the Institution’s existence only one
hundred and nine gold medals and bars
have been awarded. And with the sea
in mind, there is the Stanhope Gold
Medal, many of the holders of which
have been officers and men of the Royal
Navy. The medal is the V.C. among
distinctions of this particular class, and
it is bestowed on the man who is judged
to have performed the most valorous
act of the year, the tribunal in this case
being the Royal Humane Society.

The Edward Medal, founded eighteen
years ago in the name of the late King
Edward, was intended to signalize acts
of courage in mines, but its bestowal was
afterwards extended to include those
who in the course of “industrial employ-
ment endanger their own lives in saving
or endeavoring to save the lives of others
from perils incurred in connection with
such industrial employment."

There are two Albert Medals, though
the fact is little known — one for saving
life at sea, the other for saving life on
land. Originally the award, in both in-
stances, was confined to acts of heroism
within the Empire; that restriction has
now been removed.

$28,000 FOR TREE

Sofia. — A Bosnian farmer here has
become rich beyond his dreams. He has
sold a huge ash tree off his farm to
an Austrian manufacturer for $28,000.
The value of the tree consisted in its
marble-like veins and cross-color patches.

Forty percent of fruit shipped on rail-
roads of the U. S. is hauled an average
of more than 2,000 miles, according to C.
E. Virden, chairman of the Pacific Coast
Transportation Advisory Board.

Largest railroad locomotive in Aus-
tralia is to be built in Newport, Victoria.
It will be a three-cylinder Pacific type
with reported tractive power of 40,000
pounds.

A novelist says that he can see neither
sense nor fun in hunting. One man’s
meet is generally another man’s poison.

One strives for health and cures his
body’s ills; another mopes and gathers
doctor’s bills.

December, 1926: Vol. X., No. 4

Canadian Railroader , Montreal

IN THE REALM OF HOME

The Glow of Christmas

Season of Peace and Goodwill affords opportunity
for thinking those kindly thoughts and doing
those lovely deeds which at other periods
of the year are often stifled hy ma-
material c o n s i d e r a t i o n s

T HERE are some people who think
(or say they think) that Christmas
is rather a nuisance, that it is a
waste of time and money, and that we
should all be better off if it never came.

But if it never came at all the world
would be a much worse place to live in.

Peace and good-will towards men are
in the very air just now, and everyone,
whether willing or not, is caught up into
it. The music of the Christmas bells, the
present-giving, the hearty greetings, and
the jolly family reunions awake echoes
in every heart. Then, too, the fact that
the greatest holiday of all the year is
the Birthday of a Child makes us realize
that simplicity and innocence are of
greater worth than any material prizes
we may have gained.

How many friendships, almost forgot-
ten as the years fly by, wake to new
life with the letter or card that comes
on Christmas morning ? But for that
yearly re-kindling of the spark we
should lose touch altogether with many
of those we once loved. Isn’t Christmas
worth while, if only for that?

Every Christmas Day, too, takes us
back through our lives to other times
and other places — back to the first
Christmas Day we remember. Can you
help smiling as you remember the glee
with which you went to bed on Christ-
mas Eve, knowing that Santa Claus
would come in the night and leave be-
hind him a load of presents? Doesn’t
the thought of the merriment and fun
you had then make you feel ten years
younger ? Is there anything else but
Christmas that can make you feel like
that?

If we think of a Child on Christmas
Day we must also think of a Mother.
And that makes you think of your own
mother. Perhaps you have not been so
kind to her as you might have been.
Perhaps you live far away from her and
haven’t written as regularly as you

ought. You can make all that right at
Ohiistmas. It affords an opportunity
you never get at any other time.

That is why the heart inevitably glows
as Christmas approaches. Every kindly
impulse which stirs in the mind and
every beautiful thought which illumines

YULE MIDNIGHT

T HE frostbound day has died, and lo!
In swarms the legions shine —

The constellations wheeling slow,
Changeless, divine.

A man may watch, this holy night,

Those twinkling suns afar,

Until the stars to his blurred sight
Seem one huge star.

And think, maybe, ere darkness dies
How three Kings journeying lone,

Seeing a host of stars, had eyes
For one alone.

—ERIC CIIILMAN.

the soul is allowed to blossom into a
lovely deed which brightens some dis-
couraged one and sends out the beams
of Christmas farther and farther along
the road.

brush up your mind

I F you want to look fascinating brush
up your mind. No one can grow
flowers without putting in seeds;
and yet in the matter of good looks that
is just what most of us try to do.

So many folks, quite without realizing
it, think the very same thoughts over
and over, day by day, and then wonder
that they look stodgy and dull.

Don t do it; treadmill thoughts are in-
variably drab, and often peevish, and
consequently can make havoc of even
perfect features.

Often girls buy lipsticks and powder-
puffs when they’d get more lasting re-
sults if they bought books— books of a
really worth-while sort. The simple
truth is that brainless beauty is no lon-
ger admired in these post-war days, and
a girl has to have more than mere wax-
doll prettiness if she is to be admired.
And as the face mirrors the mind, one
has to have a vivid and intelligent mind
if one is to get a good reflection.

They lift faces by surgery nowadays,
but the woman who keeps her mind ac-
tive and a storehouse of interesting facts
will never need that operation.

If I recommended algebra to shape the
eyebrows, and geometry to improve the
complexion, you’d laugh; and yet per-
haps I shouldn’t be so far wrong. If
there’s nothing else to be said for edu-
cation, it does improve the looks; the
“public school” stamp on the features is
an attractive thing. And perhaps, even
if we can’t all go in for higher educa-
tion as a variety of “Beauty Parlor,” we
can provide at small expense good men-
tal food for our sluggish minds and see
that we don’t become apathetic and half-
asleep.

TO CLEAN LACE

Very fine old lace can be beautifully
cleaned by being sewn in a clean piece
of linen, and laid all night in salad oil.
Next day boil in a large boiler of soapy
water for a quarter of an hour, and rinse
in several waters. Dip into warm water
in which a few lumps of sugar have
been dissolved, and pin on a strained
cloth to dry.

Canadian Railroader , Montreal

December, 1926: Vol. X No. 4

From Day to Day

H OWEVER well it may be in theory to
try to give the children only large, un-
swallowable objects as playthings, you
may be sure that in practice they will rejoice
in amassing many tiny and sharp ones, just
calculated to do mischief. Babies, especially,
have wonderfully sharp eyes for what is
tiny, and will discover and collect small
objects on the floor that a grown-up would
not notice.

What is to be done if a child swallows some-
thing which he cannot possibly digest? Of
course, if it is poisonous he must be induced to
return it as speedily as possible by an emetic.
A handful of salt in lukewarm water, followed
by plenty of water-drinking, is often effective,
but it is not always easy to get a tiny child to
drink freely.

A dose of ipecacuanha wine will serve, if it is
in the house, or sometimes it is possible to in-
duce vomiting by tickling the back of the
throat with a feather. How to neutralize
what may be left in the stomach, even after
vomiting, will depend on the poison taken,
but the mother will have done her part if
she makes the child thoroughly sick, keeps
him as warm as possible and awake while
she calls for the doctor.

More frequently, however, a child swallows
something like a button, coin, or pin. If
such an object has stuck in the throat the
child will choke. The mother must firmly
put finger and thumb down as far as possible,
to see whether she can hook it up. If this
is impossible, she can change her tactics and
seek to push it down the gullet, with a pen-
holder or anything else handy, taking care
not to hurt the mucus lining of the throat.
If this is not enough, hold the child upside
down and give him a good shake, or a smart
slap on the back may dislodge the object.

In many cases, even quite a large object
like a coin will slip down a small person’s
throat with amazing ease; then the question
is what will happen as it seeks to traverse
the complicated and twisting digestive sys-

tem ? It can best be helped on its journey
by at once giving the child some stodgy
food — buns, porridge, potato, or bread — and
giving little or no liquid that day. Two or
three hours later a dose of castor oil may
be given.

Pointing a Moral

Some people are very much against any
aperient being given until the coin appears,
but, as a piece of personal history, it may
interest mothers to know that my baby
swallowed a nickle, when he was about
twenty months old. That coin stayed there
for five weeks and two days while John was
under professional observation; ex-rayed
every two or three days, and fed on a special
stodgy diet. Then, in despair, I gave him
some baked apples followed by a dose of
olive oil, and the coin appeared without a
murmur.

In most cases mothers need not be appre-
hensive when some rounded object is swallow-
ed, especially when suitable food is im-
mediately given to wrap round the object
and carry it on through the body. But,
of course, when anything sharp is swallowed,
that is quite another matter, and it may be
necessary to operate.

The moral is: Be “extra” careful about
leaving pins and needles about, and only
use strong, really “safe” safety-pins for doing
up baby’s napkins.

TEACH THEM TO USE THEIR
TEETH

If a mite of eighteen months or there-
abouts seems to have an incurable fancy
for bolting his food, you can only teach
him better by personal example. Tell
him to watch how mother eats, and
champ your jaws vigorously as you mas-
ticate a small spoonful from your own
plate. “Now, baby, do that,” you say,
and the whole business soon becomes a
delightful game.

Sensible Toys

T HE days of flimsy toys, of painted
toys with paint guaranteed to
come off in hot little hands, of
toys with loose buttons asking to be
swallowed, of toys with sharp edges
waiting to hurt the unwary — in fact of
toys totally and absolutely inappro-
priate for any child that ever lived, are
at last passing. On all sides “sensible”
toys abound.

The division between educational
kindergarten apparatus and the toy sim-
ple is fast breaking down, helped by the
cheery boxes and other wrappings in
which they are contained. Santa Claus
stockings this year may well contain
toys calculated to teach while they
amuse; to employ childish grey matter
without over-taxing it; and to keep out
of mischief in the most legitimate of
fashions.

The donor of the “sensible” gift may
not receive quite such enthusiastic grati-
tude as he who provides the glamorous
clockwork spider or other ephemeral at-
traction, but he will have his reward in
the end, for once its glamor is past it is
to the making and doing toys to which
the children will turn with full satisfac-
tion for hours on end.

Think Before You Leap!

Those who can afford expensive toys
should think many times before they
leap. To give a child, whose home has
a narrow hall already choked up with a
pram, a large toy motor is not a kind-
ness; the same money might provide an
occupation which would be almost equal
to the services of a nurse-maid for a
year!

Simple gymnastic apparatus, on which
a child can swing, hang, balance him-
self, and jump, is a suggestion worth
considering, as is the sort of building
blocks to be found on the market, which
your local carpenter can devise.

Most sensible mothers keep down the
number of toys which their children are
allowed to possess, realizing that their
inventive gifts may be choked with too
much ready-made amusement at hand.

But it is ideal if the child can have
what I call the bed-rock toys. For ex-
ample, every child should have at least
one toy just to love — a cuddly bear or a
baby doll. One toy with which to build
— bricks, for instance. Something with
which to play trains, though nothing too
elaborate and perfect is needed. Some-
thing to have out of doors with him —
a wheel to push when tiny, a doll’s
pram, kiddie-car, or baby bike later. And
at least one absorbing Sunday game,
which is sighed for all the week! Last,
but not least, come books.

December, 1926: Vol. X., No. 4

Making Love Last

E very day of my life I am hearing
of some love affair or other that
has, as they say nowadays, “come
unstuck," says Leonora Erles. All sorts
of reasons are given for this; sometimes
it is boredom, through a long engage-
ment. Sometimes it is a case of mere
physical attraction, and when this has
passed there is nothing left, so that
lovers drift apart. In both these cases
it is a mercy they have drifted apart.
If they had married, what misery there
would have been for them!

Partners

Marriage does all it can to bore both
man and woman. They have a little
home to keep up, and it costs so much
energy to do so nowadays that they have
to depend on themselves for amusement.

We are losing the habit of amusing
ourselves. Children and grown-ups alike
nowadays cannot make themselves con-
tent for any length of time without
something to amuse themselves. They
must go to the pictures, or off on an
outing, or have a book to read. They
cannot even be interested in talk as they
used to be. So that, if you are not thor-
oughly interested in the same things
as you marriage partner, you stand a
very poor chance of happiness. And the
engagement that falls through from
boredom is a lucky thing for the en-
gaged people, because it is a less irre-
vocable thing than marriage.

Lovers

An engagement based merely on physi-
cal attraction is a pretty poor thing, too.
Many a young couple get engaged at a
dance or on a holiday when the physical
sort of attraction is at its greatest. And
they know nothing of each other's minds
and souls. Supposing for instance, that
the boy was studious and fond of books,
the girl quite uninterested in reading.
What a terrible prospect of boredom is
opened up! Evenings when the hus-
band is aching to get at his books, but
must chatter to please his wife; even-
ings when she is longing to chatter, but
must be quiet because he wants to read.

People must know each other thor-
oughly before they become engaged.
Love at first sight is usually a thrilling,
but not at all happy, business. And it
fades as time goes on.

But amongst lovers who really are
suitable for each other, perhaps the
greatest mistake is making a business
of love. They write to me every week,
these young people — “I can only see my
boy three evenings a week because he
goes out with boy friends. Isn't it too
bad of him?" Or “My girl will insist
on our spending Sundays with her

family when I want to be alone with

Well, it is a great mistake to see too
much of each other and to possess each
ot er. The most loving bond becomes
irksome in time.

Boredom

As long as you don’t feel the pull of
the bond it is all very well, but the
moment either of two lovers begins to
interfere with the other’s liberty, the
bond hurts.

QUAINT THINGS

I LOVE quaint things —

A wicker gate— with roses climb-
ing high,

Tali hollyhocks abloom — a fair blue
sky

High over head — where bluebirds swift-
ly fly!

I love quaint things —

Quaint sunlit windows looking on a hill,
White ruffled curtains blowing at
their will,

Sweet blossoms blooming on the win-
dow still.

I love quaint things —

Soft candles casting mellow, golden
light

On dear quaint yellow teacups — silver
bright!

Waiting for dear ones to come home
at night!

All these I love —

Dear quaint and lovely things— that
make days fly as if on golden wings.
All these I love — but better than the
rest —

Are souls of dear ones . . . that we
love for them.

We know how rich life really is — and
blest!

— Paula Martin Anderson.

Don’t make a job of being engaged or
in love. The young people who try to
alter their whole days and ways of
thinking because they get engaged are
going to have a disaster sooner or later.
Young lovers, as soon as they meet,
think it necessary to talk about love,
to make love. These are the foolish
ones. The wise ones kiss and feel ador-
ably happy in being together, then they

Canadian Railroader , Montreal

start to talk about each other's work
and play.

An engaged girl or boy should be no
different from the unengaged variety.
If they do make a difference, they will
both feel disappointed with what love
and the engagement have brought them.

Keep cool about love. Don’t treat it
like a new toy and play with it too much.
Love isn’t a toy; it is something that
has to last you all your life, so be careful
with it; treat it as the fragile and beau-
tiful thing it is.

THE BUSINESS-GIRL MUST BE FIT

T HE problem of keeping fit is quite
as important for the business
girl as for her employer. While
he is not likely to grapple successfully
with business problems if brain and
nerves are affected by wrong living, she
in her lowlier sphere cannot carry out
her duties satisfactorily if she is not
“fit" in every way. The girl who spends
the greater part of her waking hours
in an office or shop is at a great dis-
advantage compared with the leisured
girl; but by taking thought it is possible
to keep body and brain so tuned up that
work becomes easy instead of a weari-
ness to the flesh, and the individual is
able to enjoy recreation after the fa-
tigues of the day.

It is impossible to lay down a hard-
and-fast rule for everybody as regards
diet, for constitutions differ. One may,
however, advise the business girl who
wishes to keep fit to cut out that “pas-
try-and-glass-of-milk" lunch which
makes so many of our young girls look
so sallow and ill-nourished. Substitute
good, sustaining food, and this need not
be expensive. Fresh fruits and vege-
tables are not enormously dear, and
there is more health in them than in
tons of “fancy pastries." As regards
meat, let it be taken only once a day,
and let that once be at the evening
meal. Excess of flesh-food creates poi-
sonous acids in the blood, which cause
great suffering in various ways. Al-
ways see that the bowels are active, for
sluggishness in this department means
that nobody can feel fit and ready to
face whatever the day may bring forth.

Before dismissing the subject of diet
one may remark that no girl can keep
fit unless she bars the habit of “nib-
bling" between meals. We all know
the type of girl who keeps sweets, or
biscuits, or apples in her desk, and is
perpetually taking surreptitious bites.
The habit of eating between meals is
responsible for more ill-health than
enough. It spoils the digestion, and a
spoilt digestion means a spoilt life.

Canadian Railroader , Montreal

December, 1926: Vol. X., No. 4

I BOYS AND

M i —

Christmas Conundrums

MERRY CHRISTMAS

Y dear nieces and nephews:
Aren’t your hearts all going
pit-a-pat these days? Just a
few more weeks till Christmas eve,
when the spirit of Yuletide is so near
you feel almost as if you could touch
it, merely by stretching out your hand.
Mother will be making her choicest cook-
ies and putting the finishing touches on
the turkey; Big Brother will be hauling
home the Christmas tree, Big Sister will
be hanging garlands of holly and huge
red bells at the windows, and Dad will
be coming in with big, queer looking
bundles, while throughout the house will
be the most tantalizing fragrance of
mince pies, plum puddings and all the
other wonderful things in preparation
for the great dinner on Christmas day.

I hope you have all been good girls
and boys during the past year. The other
day I unexpectedly met Santa Claus
in Montreal and he told me that he loves
best the nice little folk who are kind to
Mother and Dad and Brother and Sister
and who, like the Scouts, try to do a
good turn every day. Then he gave a
list of the wonderful things he had in
his sack for the boys and girls in the
big cities and the small towns, and the
lonely country places where little people
will be hanging up their stockings on
Christmas eve.

But while we are anticipating such
wonderful things for ourselves let us
not forget the poor little boys and girls
who haven’t sufficient clothes to keep
their bodies warm or sufficient food to
nourish them. Let us think not so much
of what we may find in our stockings
as of what some little girl or boy will
find in his or hers because we thought
of them. Then, brighter than the bright-
est light on the Christmas tree will be
the thought that someone is happy be-
cause we remembered him at this beau-
tiful season of “peace and goodwill to
men.”

A merry Christmas to you all!

Your loving,

W HAT letter is it that turkeys
most dislike? — The letter A, be-
cause it makes roost into roast.

* * * *

Why is a broken motor tire like a
Christmas cracker? — Because it goes
off with a bang.

* * * *

What is it that small boys never have
at Christmas? — Enough.

* * * *

Why is poor old pa like an orange at
Christmas? — Because he is always skin-
ned.

How is a snowstorm like a child with
a cold in its head? — It blows, it snows
(its nose).

* * * *

What bird is well represented at most
Christmas dinners? — The swallow.

* * * *

I am the fruit of an evergreen tree:
change my head and I am part of the
body, again and I am a sound, again not
in company, again and I am used to
make things sharp, again and I am fin-
ished.

Answer: Cone, bone, tone, lone, hone,
done.

Santa says, “Hero’s wishing the jolliest Christmas to every little girl and hoy!

December, 1926: Vol. X ., No. 4

Canadian Railroader, Montreal

IN LIGHTER VEIN

NOBLE AMBITION

ALREADY SUPPLIED

SORROWFUL EXPERIENCE
A country Vioar had a crusty parish-
ioner who delighted in opposing him in
every way. The Vicar, having been of-
fered another living, accepted it, and,
when taking his leave of the parish,
called upon the parishioner. He was
touched by the man's evident regret.
“Why, I thought you would be glad to
get rid of me!” exclaimed the Vicar. The
man shook his head solemnly. “Well,”
he said, “you see, sir, I've lived here for
nigh forty years, and I generally find
when a parson leaves that there's never
a bad 'un goes but a wuss 'un comes!”

CONTORTION

Hyde Park orator: “My friends, if we
were each of us to turn and look our-
selves squarely in the face, what should
we each find we needed most?” Voice
from the crowd: “In india-rubber neck,
mister!”

SARCASTIC POLITENESS
The conductor was becoming annoyed.
People kept asking him ridiculous ques-
tions. Finally a very sour-faced woman
said, “Conductor, can you give me two
sixpences for a shilling?” “Of course,”
said the conductor, “any particular dates
you’d like?”

A SAFE STATEMENT
Tollerton met a man, and while not
remembering who he was, but feeling
certain that he was acquainted with him,
held out his hand and said, “I am sure I
have met you somewhere!” “No doubt,”
was the reply. “I have been there
often!”

Mamma,” said lititle Anthony, “won’t
you please give me a penny?” “What
do you want it for?” inquired his mother,
Who did not approve of his spending
money on cheap sweets. “Well, you see,
I’ve got two pence already, and Tommy
Jenkinson says if I give him threepence
he’ll teach me how to waggle my ears!”

NO CHOICE

A well-known County Court judge
once rebuked a man in court for endeav-
oring to confirm an absurd story told by
his wife. “You really should be more
careful,” the judge said. “I tell you can-
didly I don’t believe a word of your
wife’s story!” “That’s all very well!
You may do as you like,” answered the
man in a mournful tone, “but I’ve got
to!”

INSTRUCTED

Thompson: “Do you know how to run
a motor car?” Jackson: “Why, I
thought I did until I had a short con-
versation with a policeman.”

“Has that young man who is calling
on you given you any encouragement,
Eliza?” asked the father. “Oh, yes!
Last night he asked me if you and
mother were pleasant to live with.”

COMPLETING THE JOB

Farmer: “Somebody stole three sets of
harness out of my stable.” Policeman:
“Did the thief leave any traces?”
Farmer: “No; he took traces and all!”

A canvasser stepped briskly up to a
young merchant’s table and laid a small
article close to his right hand. “ I have
here a new letter-opener,” he said, “a
handsome article to be kept on the table

of your library, and ” “Pardon me,”

interrupted the merchant, without turn-
ing his head, “but I have already the
best letter-opener and the quickest.”
“How long have you had it?” asked the
canvasser. “You know there are im-
provements always being introduced.”
“Mine couldn’t be improved,” responded
the merchant. “I’ve had her for about
two years now— anniversary of the wed-
ding next month!”

LEARNED BY EXPERIENCE
Two travellers, a Scot and a Jew,
were exchanging in friendly rivalry
stories illustrative of that genius for
economy which is commonly attributed
to both races. “After all,” said the
Scot, “a Yorkshireman can give us
points and beat us.” “That’s right,”
said the other. “Why, there is an old
Yorkshireman I know, whose wife per-
suaded him to let her give a party. He
let her have her way, but the expense
worried him till he got melancholy. The
day before the party she said, ‘John, we
shall be short of chairs; we shall have
to buy or hire some.' ‘Not wi' my brass
we wean’t,’ he said. ‘Ah’ll nail up some
o’ yon old reins and traces that’s lying
i’ t' stables.’ ‘Whatever in the name o'
goodness for?' said his wife ‘Then
thooase there’s not a seat for mun hang
on to t’ straps, same as they do i’ tram-
cars!’ ”

THE RULING INSTINCT
“It is amazing the interest a crowd
will take in trifles!” exclaimed Worth-
ley. “Isn't it!” said Hewson. “I quite
agree with you!” “Why,” proceeded
Worthley, “as I was coming along just
now I saw a fight between a bulldog
and a mastiff; and, upon my word, dur-
ing the fifteen minutes I was watching,
more than fifty men were standing
round! How can people take an inter-
est in such things?” “I can’t imagine,”
said Hewson. “And which dog won?”

Hicks: “Stout people, they say, are
rarely guilty of meanness or crime.”
Robinson: “Well, you see, it’s so diffi-
cult for them to stoop to anything low.”

Canadian Railroader , Montreal

December, 1926: Vol. X., No. 4

announcement

The Canadian Railroader

with its issue of

MARCH, 1927

will become a

MONTHLY

With a change of name to

CANADIAN TRAVEL

embracing and featuring OUR Policy of

Canada First,

Last and Always !

It will be a

MAGAZINE for CANADIANS

Edited and Published by Canadians

Advertising Rates
on Request

John D. Sullivan , Advertising Manager

Office of Publication
316 Lagauchetiere St. West
Montreal

December , 1926: Vol. X No. 4

Canadian Railroader, Montreal

■a young man’s country

There is no country which offers better
opportunities to young men than does
Canada. It has definitely emerged from
a four-year cycle of depression which
followed the advance and inflation of
the war and post-war years and is now
at the beginning of an upswing. The
trend is unmistakably upward. All the
basic business barometers clearly in-
dicate fine weather.’’

— Babson Statistical Bureau.

25 YEARS GROWTH IN POPULATION
10

9,364,200

| 5,371,315

Year 1900

1925

What will the next 25 Years show?

CANADA LEADS!

as will

CANADIAN TRAVEL

Watch for the Growth of this Magazine

Canadian Railroader , Montreal

December, 1926: Vol. X, No. 4

C.G.M.M. Canadian Sapper loading cattle at Charlottetown, P.E.I.

One Hundred Years at the Zoo

A LTHOUGH it did not receive its
charter until 1829, the London Zoo,
the finest collection of captive wild
animals in existence, was unofficially founded
a hundred years ago this year.

The centenary celebrations, plans for which
are already being made, will be held in three
years' time, but the Zoo really dates from
1826, when Sir Stamford Raffles, the great
British administrator of Eastern fame, formed
the nucleus of what is now the great national
collection. Fifteen members of the Zoological.
Club, which used to discuss animals over its
monthly dinners, were the original members
of what is now the Zoolog cal Society of
London.

The first living creatures the club acquired
were a Griffin vulture, an eagle, and a deer;
afterwards some bears were added from the
Tower of London, where for centuries there
had been a small menagerie.

Today, as revealed by a recent stocktak-
ing, the collection in Regent’s Park consists
of three thousand five hundred animals, valu-
ed at ( £25,000. $ 125,000) This figure, however,
does not represent anything like the fu ? l value
of the exhibits, many of which are irreplace-
able; it is merely an estimate of the sum the
Zoological Society would expect to receive
if forced to dispose of the animals. Probably
£100,000 would be nearer the actual value
of the collection, although ,if the Zoo were
offered to world-wide auction, America would
probably bid anything up to a quarter of a
million pounds for it.

But although the Zoo is a century old,
it is by no means the oldest institution of its
kind in the world. The first zoological garden
of which there is conclusive historical proof

was founded in China, in 1 100 B.C. It was
known as the “ Intelligence Park," and
appears to have been established for scientific
and educational purposes.

The ancient Greeks and Romans kept in
captivity large numbers of wild animals,
many destined for slaughter in the great
gladiatorial contests.

Of the bigger animals that are a feature
of the Zoo, the elephant has been known in
this country longer than most others. There
is mention of elephants as attractions at
village fairs in the reign of Queen Elizabeth.
Lions and leopards were known in England
in the thirteenth century.

Giraffes Too Tall for Tunnels

The first rhinoceros to be seen in London
arrived in 1864, and was sold by public auc-
tion, the purchaser, a Mr. Langley, bidding
the then enormous sum of £2,300 for the
animal, which created a sensation. The
purchaser exhibited his acquisition at a
shilling a head, and made £20 a day by
doing so. The Zoo’s first African rhinoceros
was bought in 1864; it lived well on into
the present century.

Giraffes were unknown here until 1827,
in which year Mehemet Ali sent a specimen
to King George IV. It was kept in a paddock
at Windsor, but its keepers were at a loss
how to feed t, and the animal soon languished
and died.

Today the Zoo’s most valuable animal
from the showmanship standpoint is Indirani,
the large Indian elephant, which earns over
£300 a year in riding fees. She is priced at
£1,000. The largest hippopotamus is put
down at £800. The giraffes, although among
the most popular animals in the Gardens,

are valued at a comparatively small sum
They cannot be transported, their necks
being too tall to pass under tunnels!

Tigers are worth £150 each, but lions are
a drug on the market; they are valued at
only £40 each.

Of all the animals the Zoo has possessed
none has been more beloved of adults and
children alike than the famous elephant
Jumbo, whose departure in 1882 caused all
London to shed tears of regret.

Three and a half years later Jumbo came
to an untimely end as a result of a collision
on the railway. And all England went into
mourning.

The chimpanzees at the Zoo are great
favorites with visitors and grow very affec-
tionate. The story is told by Miss Sylvia
Baker in her “Portraits in the London Zoo"
of a hybrid chimpanzee-gorilla which was
dying of consumption. When one of the
officials came to visit her she “gazed up at
him with serenity, stretched out her hand,
kissed him three times, and died."

“Pongo," the orang-outang, belongs to a
warlike tribe, possessed of enormous strength,
which is generally victorious even over those
formidable creatures of the jungle, the crocodile
and the python. He fights the crocodile by
leaping on its back, pulling open the great
jaws, and ripping up the brute’s throat. The
python he deals with by seizing it with his
hands and wrestling with it until the neck
comes within reach of his jaws, when he bites
it to death.

Artist: “I paint a picture in two days
and think nothing of it.” Critic: “I am
of your opinion.”

December, 1926: Vol. X., No. 4

Canadian Railroader , Montreal

Canadian Railroader, Montreal

December, 1926: Vol. X., No. 4

CHAPTER I.

THE CONQUEST BEGINS

It was one o’clock on a Saturday in
December, 1921. In the Ritz grill Theo-
dore assigned tables with affable diplo-
macy.

At a table near the door three girls
studied the carte du jour.

“I think,” said Susie Burnham, most
conspicuous of the group, “I really think
that I shall have sweetbreads in
cream.”

Cecil Rayburn, the young woman
with straight tan hair coiled above a
neck from which the summer sunburn
would never quite depart followed with
a definite “Turkey hash for me.”

Isabel, Cecil Rayburn’s nineteen-
year-old sister instructed the waiter to
bring hash for two and sweetbreads for
one.

Meanwhile Cecil extracted a cigarette
from a paper package and began to
smoke in a business-like manner.

Just at this moment Isabel gave a
little gasp. “Dick!” she cried. “I
didn’t know he was back from Hot
Springs.”

“What? Who? Du Maurier?” ex-
claimed Susie. “Where is he?”

“Easy to pick him out by the halo,”
was Cecil’s caustic contribution.

Isabel directed Susie’s wandering
gaze to a splendidly built man of about
twenty-seven, with fair skin, thick
brown hair, and features cast in a
classical mould. He wore a gardenia
in the buttonhole of ibis blue suit.

“That’s Du Maurier,” boasted Isabel,
as he approached their table.

“Hello, I’ve been looking for you.”
He took Isabel’s outstretched hand in
his left, while he offered Cecil a more
ceremonious clasp. How’s the market?”

Cecil — super-secretary to the senior
partner of Harcourt, Hutchinson &
Vincennes, a member of the New York
Stock Exchange — replied briefly to the
point.

“Dick, this is Miss Burnham,” said
Isabel, “Susie — Du Maurier.”

Du Maurier bowed and looked direct-
ly into Susie’s round brown eyes.

“I got in this morning,” he remarked,
seating himself next to Isabel. “I
thought I’d find you here.”

It developed that he had asked Isabel
to dine with him that evening, and the
suggestion that they invite Cecil, Stock
Potter and Miss Burnham to a theatre
party afterwards brought forth a swift
apneal from Susie.

“Oh, what am I to do?” she wailed.
“I have an engagement with Bertie.”

“Bring him along,” Cecil commanded,
amused at the prospect of seeing Ber-
tram Wowse in juxtaposition with the
immaculate Du Maurier.

Cecil, who had promised Mr. Har-
court to come back and type some im-
portant letters, finally arose, promising
to call for the theatre tickets on her
way down town.

Du Maurier went next, anxious to
round up Stock Potter who would prob-
ably support a pillar in the Biltmore
lobby until three o’clock, when he retired
to a neighboring bar for the balance of
the afternoon.

The music had stopped; the tables
emptied. Isabel /longed for her own
quiet bedroom, where she could ponder
in solitude upon the blessings of love.

“Well, Susie, I’ll see you later. My
father’s all alone; the maid has gone to
meet her cousin from Calais.”

“But you said your father had a bell
to the janitress’s room. ...”

“Either Cecil or I try to be there
when Anastasie’s out. It worries us,
knowing how helpless he is.”

The apartment which the two sisters
shared with their father. Captain Ray-
burn, was remote both in blocks and
atmosphere from the populous garrulity
of the Ritz. On the first story of an
old-fashioned building in Washington
Square West, it was built around a
lofty studio-room. Aloof from the
eager life outside, Adrian Rayburn
read, slept, drank highballs, and made
ironic comments upon the world.

In 1897 Adrian Rayburn, still under
twenty-five, was a living paradox.
Blue-eyed, sweet-voiced, with the hands
of an aesthete and the complexion of a
girl, he had behind him the record of
three voyages: one of exploration, in
Brazil, and two hunting-trips, from
which he returned with a little tan and
a lot of leopard skins.

Felix Carter, the brawny-armed ex-
plorer with whom he travelled in those
days, gave Adrian Rayburn credit for
more cold nerve than any living man,
and used to refer to him jestingly as
“the mailed fist in the velvet glove.”
His rare combination of sweetness and
daring endeared the young Adrian to
women. After his third trip he was
presented to New York society by the
charming Veronica French- — whio was
widowed and white-haired though still
under twenty — and he was promptly
lionized. Toward the end of the season,
just as he was making ready for a
fourth journey, Mrs. French invited
Adrian to meet her sister Helena, a
quiet girl who had been brought up on
a Connecticut farm, and seemed to have
the perpetual freshness of young fruit
about her.

Adrian and Helena were married in
the spring; the explorer put aside his
gun and took up gentlemanly farming.
At the end of a glorious, secluded year
on the bank of the wide river, Cecil
was born. Then three years passed,
and just as Adrian was beginning to
feel the burden of the yoke of marriage,
his second child arrived.

And when, in 1907, shortly before
Colonel Roosevelt’s celebrated trip, Felix
Carter begged Adrian to come with him
to Africa, Adrian consented. For a
year there was no word from him.

The word, when at last it came, was
devastating. Captain Rayburn had got

too close to a leopard, and when the
rest of his party reached the scene they
found nothing but scattered remnants
of bloody clothing. Helena received
the news with a deceptive appearance
of calm. During the night that follow-
ed she had a severe heart attack, and
for six months after she lay still, waxen
white, without will to live. She died,
patiently and unobtrusively as she had
existed, in the bed where she had first
consummated her marriage with Adrian
Rayburn. She left her daughters com-
fortable incomes, and Veronica French
was appointed executrix of the will.

Not long afterwards all that was left
of Adrian unexpectedly reappeared.
Mrs. French was the first person to see
him, but though his mutilated ;form
hinted the horror pf those moments
when the leopard clawed and dragged
him, it won him little sympathy and no
forgiveness. So Adrian never saw Mrs.
French again.

From that time forward he severed
relations with the community in which
he lived. With complete isolation as his
aim, he remained at his wife’s place in
Connecticut until his daughters express-
ed an urgent wish to move to the city,
in granting their desire, he insisted
upon the Washington Square district,
Which would keep him far from the
scene of his former triumphs. Cecil,
always independent and undemonstra-
tive, had already taken a position in
Cyril Harcourt’s office. And when
Isabel returned from the boarding-
school where she had learned to pour
tea, write an illegible hand, and model
figures in plastelline, Adrian encourag-
ed her to continue the last occupation.

Two of the French windows facing
the court had been opened. Before
leaving to meet her cousin from Calais,
Anastasie had wheeled Captain Rayburn
into the sunlight and wrapped him in a
wooly plaid which muffled the rather
wayward outline of his figure.

‘<Pve been reading about dreams,”
Adrian told Isabel as she came into his
room. I used to have a dream, long
ago, about a white leopard ...”

“Pupaw, I think you believe in magic.
If you’d lived in the Middle Ages you’d
have been an alchemist.”

“And burned at the stake, no doubt.
But you don’t believe in magic. Well,

well, by God ” Adrian broke off

the sentence. “There’s magic in love,”
he said in a voice that made Isabel
shiver a little.

He was silent for a moment. Then:
“Has that chap — what's hiis name?—
Du Maurier come back?”

Isabel nodded, wondering how he
knew. . „

“By ... let us say more magic.
He gloated over her discomfiture before
he queried. “You’re bound to have the
fellow, aren’t you? Going to marry
him?”

“He hasn’t asked me yet, pupaw.

“If you want him,” Adrian said,
“you’ll get him in time. All women do.”

December, 1926: Vol. X., No. 4

He laughed, a short sharp note like two
pieces of metal struck together. “But
you may have to use magic; you may
even have to make a human sacrifice.
In the tribe I spoke of, they made a
point of offering the fathers. Excel-
lent plan.”

“Horrible,” said Isabel.

“If you think that, you aren't in love.
There is only one thing more brutai
than love itself — and that is, a woman
whose hunting instinct is aroused.”

“You talk as though women did the
hunting.”

“They do. There's a lot of talk about
poor girls, being misled, but it's you
who do the seducing.”

He waved his hand toward a tray on
which stood whisky, soda and a blue
china bowl filled with ice. “Fix me a
h'ghball like a dutiful daughter you
choose to think you are. Then go and
bathe yourself, comb and perfume your-
self, so that the lamb may be led more
easily to the slaughter. I suppose he
is coming tonight?”

“We’re going to dine together, then
meet a crowd at the theatre.”

“Idiot. Get him alone.”

Isabel had poured out a generous four
fingers of Whisky, her father's usual
stipend. “Is this right?” she asked a
trifle brusquely.

“Good enough,” and recentful as al-
ways of his helplessness, Adrian tasccd
the mxture. But as she left the room
he called after her: “Put on the blue
dress . . . the one with the fur. It
shows your pretty — ah* — shall I say
neck?”

CHAPTER II.

CECIL'S WARNING

Cecil returned late in the afternoon,
her cheeks glittering with color.

“You're just as mad in your way as
Isabel in hers,” Adrian informed his
first-born. “Go in and help your sister
dress. We'll make her as attractive as
possible and hasten her doom.”

“I w sh you wouldn't encourage it,
Adrian,” said Cecil, lowering her voice.
“Why did you have to fancy him of
all people? His influence over Isabel
is extraordinary; he's changed her alto-
gether.”

“He hasn't. It's love.” Adrian
chuckled. “You mind your own busi-
ness Cecil, let Isabel have her fun. It's
the same with all snort : the harder the
chase, the greater the satisfaction when
you bring down your quarry. That
young man will put up a fight for his
freedom — and it will amuse me to watch
it.”

“You're a beast, Adrian, but I'll wager
it doesn't end the way you think,” and
Cecil, not suspecting for a moment what
the end would be, left Adrian still
laughing.

She found Isabel naked, with red vel-
vet mules upon her feet, looking in the
mirror. Isabel's main assets, her father
had often told her, were those her
clothes concealed. Her body, moulded
with admirable purity of line, had still
the chastity of adolescence.

“Adrian seems delighted by Du
Maurier’s return,” said Cecil. “He's in
a capital humour.”

Tonight Isabel was impatient. In
response to the cautious feeler extended
jy Cecil, she demanded.

Dick SiJ t V 4 you dislike about
tacks.” t S get down t0 bras s

strin D f ensemble,” answered Cecil,
flipping off her stockings and niacine-

coat. I have the feeling that he’s
putting something over on us. Draw-
ing u S out for some secret purpose
W «?• neither klnd nor charitable.”

Nothing more definite than that?”

aftor oil 1 w ] hke mysteries. And
nni p Wkat d ° w e— what does anv-
one know about Du Maurier? Simply
that he popped up in New York after
the Armistice, that somehow he gets
enough money to live on, and that he
kn ” s t! }e people one should know.”

^ 1 he last should be enough.”

That s the trouble with society now-
adays, she complained. “It takes up
anyone. Take Susie Burnham. We
don t know anything about her except
that she lives on Park Avenue and that
her mother speaks English something
in the manner of Les Precianses Ridi-
cules.

Isabel observed : “We met her at
the Dalgrens ,” as though they were the
answer.

But Cecil was not easily side-tracked.

By the way,” she said, “Susie seemed
to appreciate your sweatheart. You'd
better watch out or she'll vamp h‘m
away.”

“And you'd like that, I suppose?”

“No, my dear, I wouldn't like any-
thing that made you unhappy.”

The two girls looked at one another,
and suddenly their hands clasped and
clung. Cecil blushed, embarrassed by
this extraordinary show of emotion.

“If it's so that God looks out for
true lovers,” Isabel murmured, “He
won't give me that to deal with. I’ve
my hands full managing Dick, let alone
a rival.”

* * *

In her square bedroom of white and
gold, Susie Burnham rested after a day
of enervating boredom.

Susie was stretched out on a chaise
longue of yellow satin. Her loosened
hair, spread like a robe upon the pil-
lows, revealed unexpectedly the measure
of her allurement.

“Susie, Susie.” There was a twit-
tering of beaded garments, and a wo-
man came in.

“Yes, Mother,” said iSusie, without
relinquishing the ruddy tresses from
her loving fingers.

The woman walked to the table, pick-
ed up the empty glass, and sniffed at it.

“I thought so,” said Mrs. Burnham,
in a harsh sibilant voice. “You've been
drinking. How common!”

“I only had one drink, Mother,” re-
plied Susie, in a weary but not apolo-
getic tone. “Bertie and I each had
one.”

“Well, don't let me catch you at it
again. ...”

Susie, having listened in silence to
the opening line of an all-too-familiar
monologue, interrupted petulantly: “Oh,
Mother, I wish you'd leave me alone.
Nobody can stand being nagged at from
morning till night. If it weren't for my
will-power, I'd drink all the time. Then
maybe it wouldn't be so bad.”

“So you'd drink all the time?” Mrs.
Burnham hardened her face into mai-
tyresque sterness. “When your father
finds out, heTl take you back to Phila-

C anadian Railroader, Montreal

uci H ma, wnere you belong
be sorry, all right.”

Susie's

then you 11

eyes narrowed. “If I
you 11 go too. We both know that much ”

hold o a ff-° a8Ual,y - “ So 1 guess

1 = 1Y' 11 J ? ” yearned Mrs. Burnham,
hashing herself into a tempest of fury

seer ^ Wh€fcher 1 Miss. You'll

If you insist,” said Susie, watching
her mother s face, “you can do it to-

ni «uru 11 be bere an y minute.”

What. For a moment Mrs. Burn-
hams voice flattened, then righted it-
self.

Why did you tell him to come at this
hour?”

“Because I’m -oing out to theatre,
and I want to see him,” replied Susie
simply.

Want to see him ,” sneered Mrs.
Burnham. “Want to see a flexible
bracelet, more likely, because you know
if you get one I won't.”

“Mother!”

“A lot you care about your father.
If it weren’t for his money ”

Susie had gotten to her feet with
amazing rapidity. “Don't you dare say
that to me. You get out of my room
— you — you — you ”

At this opportune moment the expen-
sive door-bell sounded its well-bred buz-
zer. Immed ately afterwards the pater-
familias entered upon a scene of do-
mestic bliss.

CHAPTED III.

DOMESTIC TRANQUILITY

Isaac Burnham — ne Bernheimer — sen-
ior member of Burnham & Levy, stocks
and bonds, looked precisely what he was,
an inveterate gambler, who, in his own
paronomasiac phrase, had “needed the
dough and got it.” His features were
of an unmistakably Hebraic cast, his
eyes both shrewd and k’ndly.

“Whassal this? Whassal this?” he
blustered, as he strode into the room.
“Whassal the shootin' for, heh? How’s
my baby?” Whereupon he clasped
Susie, who had flung herself precipi-
tately forward, in a bearlike embrace.

“I’m so glad to see you, daddy.
. . . Oh . . . I've missed you so
...” Sobbing convulsively. Susie
clung to him, bewildered at the unex-
pected magnitude of her own m'sery.

“Well, come and pay your old pop a
little visit — he'll make it worth your
while, won’t he, heh?” And with one
arm still about his weeping daughter,
Isaac Burnham turned to his wife.

“Hello, Ollie,” he said. “How’s the
world treatin’ you this week? Pretty
good, heh?”

“I should not say that it had been
showering me with fortune,” replied
Mrs. Burnham with a sour smile.

“Now tell papa whassamatter. What
does papa's baby want, heh?”

“I don't want any . . . thing . . .”
wailed Susie, stifling her sobs upon her
father's shoulder.

“There, Suey, there. Papa’ll make
you happy.” And he pulled her up-
right. “Got the bluev blues, heh?
Well, tomorrow you run into Tiffany
and get yourself anything you want. I
really come here to tell you two grafters
to cut down on expenses, but if my
kiddy's got the blues ”

Canadian Railroader , Montreal

December, 1926: Vol. X., No. 4

“Possibly,” said the incisive voice of
Olive Burnham, “if Susannah stopped
drinking she would not become so de-
pressed afterwards.”

“Whatdduya mean, drinking?” The
kindly glow on Isaac Burnham's face
gave way to a rather terrible mixture
of fear and anger. “Didn’t I tell you
I wasn’t going to have you touching the
dirty stuff? Is that true?”

“No, daddy, I only had ...”

“ ’Tis so true. I’ll make you sorry
for this. I’m not going to have no kid
of mine hitting the bottle.”

Susie raised her eyes and was still
as a statue of despair.

“You make her shut up daddy! She’s
just trying to be mean. It’s because
she doesn’t want me to have a bracelet
— she wants it ;herself.”

There was a lull, broken, at last, by
Isaac Burnham, who jumped up in a
towering fury and rushed toward the
door. “You can both go to the devil,”
he shouted in parting. “You’re after
my jack, that’s what you are.”

And upon this truism the door
slammed.

* * *

The curtain dropped at the end of the
first act of “Broadway Blues.”

There were only four people in the
box on the upper left, and two of them
were talking. Susie, a cape of green
and gold brocade thrown about her
shoulders, leaned forward babbling ex-
citedly.

“Gonderful wirl,” incanted Bertram
Wowse, who had the appearance of
bursting out of his Bond Street dinner-
jacket, and smelled of scented brillian-
tine.

“Step outside,” suggested Stockbridge
Potter, looking at Cecil. “Plenty left
in the flask.”

“I feel like a million dollars already,”
announced Susie. “I’ll stay where I
am.”

“Nobody with me?”

Apparently nobody was. And Potte
left the box, bored by Cecil’s complaints
about Isabel’s tardiness.

Stockbridge Potter was a gentleman
of leisure, though the sources of his
income were increasingly obscure since
he had succeeded in reducing the Pres-
cott Potter estate to the vanishing
point. He had started his career in the
diplomatic service, spent five years at
the consulate in Cairo, and relinquished
the post because he claimed the Sahara
made him too thirsty. After a few
years of cheerful vagabondage he re-
turned to New York, where he had been
living ever since, chiefly on the dimin-
ishing hospitality of his friends.

At the rise of the curtain he returned
with Isabel and Ou Maurier, whom he
had picked up in the lobby.

A light glowing behind the box ac-
centuated the flush of happiness upon
Isabel’s face. She looked like a child, a
rather excited child. Du Maurier,
standing with his hand upon her shoul-
der, was impassive as ever. But his
eyes, always alert, roved out into the
audience and returned, inscrutably
possessed of some new information, to
rest upon the face of Susie.

She greeted him with a degree of
informality, and he retired — his fastid-
iousness faintly repelled by the odor of
whisky which hovered about her — to the
rear of the box. He was filled with a
sense of contented lassitude.

The brocaded wrap slipped from
Susie’s shoulders, and lay garlanded
about the back of her chair. With a
shock akin to that of awakening, Du
Maurier became aware of her soft pink
arm moving slowly, as she waved a fan.

The play was over soon. Too soon,
everyone felt, for it had been undoubt-
edly amusing. Only Isabel was glad to
emerge into the crispness of the night.

“Where shall we go?” Potter asked.
“Montmartre?”

Du Maur er shrugged. Bertie, who
felt ill at ease in his presence, chuckled
self-consciously: “How about the Ren-
dezvous? Let’s go and see Wilda
giggle.”

“We might as well walk,” suggested
Cecil. “It’s just across the street.”

They set out in couples, moving
slowly through the after-theatre crowd.
It was a misty night, and a yellowish
phosphorescence hung over the blazing
signs and illuminated passing faces.
Isabel, still reasonlessly disturbed, clung
to Du Maurier’s sleeve.

“We’ll be there in a moment,” he said.

He S}« sfc

The Rendezvous was a rather small
restaurant, with its walls done in red,
and red silk pin-wheels which remained
unexpectedly stationary forming a sort
of screen.

A good table was procured, not too
near the orchestra, nor too far from
the space cleared for what was left of
the terpsichorean art. Du Maurier,
with a total disregard of anything but
his own amusement, wedged himself
between Susie and Isabel. Bertie pro-
duced a hammered silver flask filled
with Scotch, and everybody ordered gin-
ger ale, except Cecil, who drank hers
neat, and Du Maurier, who never touch-
ed anything as plebeian as whisky.

By this time Isabel’s depression was
real. The rhythm of the music, the
bubbles of her highball, could not drive
away a sense of sinister foreboding.

Looking about the restaurant — at the
conglomeration of boys and girls with
clean athletic frames, of dancing-part-
ners paid to accompany antediluvian
millionairesses, of women who wore
many bracelets and might be either
courtesans or leaders of society, or both
— Isabel tried to grasp and hold the
sheer animal quality of the scene.

In the end her thoughts returned to
Du Maurier. To Isabel he was the
alpha and omega of eventual happiness,
the nucleus on which the fabric of her
life was buildea. And yet tonight, more
strongly than ever before, she sensed in
Du Maurier that secret purpose, that
striving towards some unseen goal, and
felt for the first time that whatever
purpose might be it reacted against her.

Du Maurier had inveigled Susie into
a discussion of altruism. Isabel forced
herself to listen to the words which she
had heard before.

“I think selfishness is perfectly rot-
ten,” Susie was reiterating.

“What kind of selfishness?” asked
Du Maurier.

“Any kind.”

CHAPTER IV.

SUSIE LOSES NO TIME

“The true female,” explained Du
Maurier, tapping his empty glass with
one fingernail, “is absolutely ruthless.

But that’s because the future of the race
depends upon her. She will sacrifice
anybody upon the altar of her desire to
find a proper father for her children.”

Isabel, catching the last of his des-
cription, was struck by its similarity to
what Adrian had said in the afternoon.

Susie, antagonized, fired back: “I
certainly shan’t belive that selfishness
is nice — even in an artist. Even in
you!”

“Why, that’s dreadful,” Du Maurier
returned banteringly. “Because my
credo is selfishness, and I’m resolved to
make you like me.”

Susie’s eyes, softening, implied that
his task would not be difficult. But,
“You’ll have to show me,” she assured
him, commanding.

The orchestra began to strum the
first bars of “Tahiti.” A hush, inter-
spersed with stamping and the very aud-
ible remarks of some Princeton youths
in a far corner, fell upon the hot
crowded room.

“Wilda’s going to giggle, Wilda’s go-
ing to giggle,” howled Bertie ecstatic-
ally, beating his highball glass with the
side of a knife.

A chorus of four girls, palpably bad
imitations of that which they represent-
ed, scurried about, filling the room with
an oppressive, pungent perfume, which,
intended to conjure up the vision of
opulent tropical nights, got lost near
the corner of Broadway and Forty-sec-
ond Street. But a wise manager could
not have furnished any more miracu-
lous contrast, when, amid a clamorous
acceleration of applause, Gilda Gray ap-
peared.

Small and glowing, instinct with a
sensuous and exciting grace, she caught
and relentlessly held to herself the at-
tention of her jaded audience. Eager
for new sensations, they found them
here, in a dance as old, perhaps, as the
race itself, a dance shamelessly vivid,
composed of movements primitive and
sensuous.

“Oh, Lordie . . . I’ve seen this so
often,” murmured Susie Burnham with
an undisguised yawn. Let’s clear out
before she gets started. ...”

Bertie’s fat face turned up in path-
etic appeal. “Oh, please, Susie,” he
begged.

Susie’s lips puckered into a red and
sullen smile. “I wouldn’t take you
away for the world, as long as you’re
dying,” she said. Turning to Du Mau-
rier, she laid her hand upon his sleeve.
“Would you,” she whispered, “be un-
selfish just for once? Would you take
me home?”

Du Maurier withdrew -his arm and
glanced at Isabel. “Any objections?”
he inquired — quite superfluously.

“Of course not,” she replied, and
turned to the dance floor, with a pre-
tended utter indifference.

Before her the dance of primitive
movements gilded with modernity con-
tinued its inexplicable magic.

* * *

“Ye Gods, I’m tired,” ejaculated Cecil,
as she and Isabel stumbled up the dark
hall toward the studio door. “I’m glad
tomorrow is Sunday so we can sleep
late. Hullo — what’s this?” as she saw
that the studio door was wide open.

“ Mpn Dieu ,” Mesdemoiselles, but I
am glad you have arrive,” cried a voice
tremulous with relief, and Anastasie de-
tached herself from the gloom. “And

December, 1926: Vol. X., No. 4

Canadian Railroader , Montreal

but it is lucky I decide to come home
early,” she added, waving her hands
wildly. “With Monsieur le Capitaine
raving like a maniac, Mesdemoiselles,
but like a maniac, I assure you.”

Isabel, curiously unsurprised in her
state of emotional exhaustion, wonder-
ed vaguely what it was all about. “Be
sensible, Anastasie,” commanded Cecil
sternly. “What happened?”

“He say now it is nothing,” explain-
ed the maid in an undertone. “A mare
of the night, as you call it. But he
scream, Mademoiselle Cessy, he scream
like the crazy person, about some white
beast that come to get him, and he tear
at his throat with his finger. He ask
for the whisky, and he hold it up to the
light so” — here there was another il-
lustration — “and say in a most ugly
voice: ‘Anatasie, watch me drink to
the white leopard, omen of misfortune
and death.’ And then he laugh, Made-
moiselle, such a laugh that make me
shiver in my skin, and tell me to get
out.”

Cecil looked toward Isabel. “Had we
better have a doctor, do you think?”

Just then Adrian, slightly hoarse, but
intensely audible, called: “Cecil, you
practical idiot, get to bed. I want to
calk to Isabel.”

Cecil looked startled for once, glanced
at her sister. Then she shrugged.
“You’d better go in. He can’t do worse
than murder you.”

Adrian was in bed, propped up against
half a dozen cushions, with the covers
drawn closely about him. He looked
ghastly. Adrian’s mouth grinned, and
he waved his hand toward the door.

“I’ve seen what I wanted,” he said
gently. “It’s too bad. A sacrifice will
certainly be demanded. Now you can
go.”

Isabel fled.

“What on earth did he want?” de-
manded Cecil, as her sister flung herself
upon the bed.

“Lord knows. He’s talking like an
idiot. Oh, Cecil,” cried Isabel, desper-
ately, “do you think he’s crazy, stark
raving crazy?” And she told Cecil what
her father had said. “And seeing the
white leopard too. . . .”

Cecil frowned, and looked away. “No,”
she said at last.. “I don’t think he’s crazy.
I think he’s had an attack of delirium
tremens. I’ll call a doctor in the morn-
ing.”

Like most medern girls, Isabel prided
herself upon being an atheist. Never-
theless she could not restrain a profound
interest in everything that pertained to
the esoteric.

Somehow she connected here emotions
in the restaurant with Adrian’s hallu-
cination. The night’s disconnected hap-
penings seemed bound together by a com-
mon undecipherable cause.

Having, like most atheists, a dread of
witchcraft, thoroughly ecclesiastical in
spirit, Isabel was frankly relieved when
the doctor pronounced Cecil’s prosaic
diagnosis approximately correct.

Cecil, left alone with her father, did
not mince words.

“You’ve frightened Isabel half to
death with your talk about magic,” she
accused, running irritable fingers
through her hair. “It’s all very well for
you to drink yourself to death if you
want — to see pink lizards, or green ele-
phants, or — ”

amiably ^ leopards ” corrected Adrian

p urple leopards, for all I care,”
snapped Cecil. “But don’t blame them
on^the supernatural, I beg of you.”

“I don’t,” said Adrian blandly. “I
blame them on the subnatural. King
batan lives underground. As for Isabel
one glance at her was enough to show
that her attack of nerves resulted from
nothing as unimportant as a father ”

Cecil gave him a swift look, but re-
1 rained from Questioning the source of
his information.

“Consider her a little, Adrian,” she
uiged. 1 m afraid she’ll be very un-
happy if Du Maurier doesn’t come
back. . . .”

Cecil’s fears were justified at short no-
tice.

CHAPTER V.

Du Maurier Fails to Appear

Du Maurier did not come back, nor so
much as telephone, on Sunday, Monday, or
the days that followed. Isabel, white-lipped
with determination, repressed her feelings and
applied herself to work. The statue of Orpheus
and Eurydice, which she and Du Maurier had
planned together, was almost completed* she
had told him so on Saturday night. Valiantly,
she hoped against reason that lie would come
to see it, if not to see her. But Wednesday
passed, and when at eight an unexpected
caller was announced, it was not Du Maurier,
but Laurence Sanville, the most faithful of
Isabel’s suitors. Larry was a young man of
the type which Du Maurier characterized as
dumb but happy. Larry was a nice boy, and
if he was not as brilliant a conversationalist
as Du Maurier, at least he played as good a
game of polo, danced as well, and loved Isabel
better.

His first words sent an arrow through her
heart .

“I hear it’s all off with Dick,” he said, and
reached for her hands.

She moved away, remarking that news —
she almost said bad news — travelled quickly.

“It’s good news for me,” Larry informed
her. “Not that I’m flatterin’ myself, but one
less rival is one rival less. Isabel dear, tell me
there’s a chance.”

“There isn’t, Larry* 1 don’t want to en-
courage you, when I know we can never be
anything but friends.” And, having said the
conventional thing, Isabel looked winsomely
up at him.

“Oh, damn that chap Du Maurier!” he
groaned. “I think you really love him. And
he goes gallivantin’ with the little red-haired
— ” He stopped, recalling the precept that
one must not say what one thought of a
woman — to another woman. He fell on his
knees beside Isabel and l>eggcd her to forgive
him for “being’ such a beast”.

“There’s nothing to forgive, Larry, old
boy,” said Isabel, passing maternal fingers
across his crisp tobacco-colored hair. ‘Aon
see it’s true. I’m just a silly girl. But I'll get
over it,” she added sagely, “and so will you.”

He squatted on the floor, and smiled, in-
stantly hopeful after the manner of some men
and all fools. “But I won’t get over it,” he
promised. “I’ll be like Cyril Harcourt is
about your Aunt Veronica. I’ll wait for
twenty vears if necessary.”

Isabel, her thoughts elsewhere, managed
to laugh with elaborate cynicism and spent
the remainder of the evening acting old and

tragic. ,

Oil Thursday morning, reconsidering Larry’s
words, and thinking not only of her broken
heart but of the jokes her friends would make
about it, I sals' I felt, resentment rising to a
climax. And at this point it inevitably re-
solved into action.

She had gotten up early, ostensibly to put
a few finishing touches to the sketch. But
Deed, entering the studio an hour later, found
her standing in her nightgown, regarding
with an expression of cold distaste the two
"nely moulded figures on the stand.

“\V hat’s the matter?” asked Cecil.

“The matter? What isn’t the matter?
1 realize now that my work has been so much
wasted time. This— this thing— is rotten!”

Cecil, pausing to throw her fur coat on the
cushion-studded divan, made an exasperated
movement.

“You know it’s good. It’s the best work
you ve ever done.”

^ hen Isabel did an astonishing thing,
rhere was an instrument of flexible metal
upon the stand, and, taking this up, Isabel
proceeded with deliberate malignity to destroy
the labor of many months.

Cecil asked disapprovingly what on earth
had made her act like such a fool.

“Du Maurier.” Isabel’s answer was swift
and savage. “It was his concept, his spirit,
and when he . . . left me ... he destroyed
it as surely as though he had used this knife.”
Isabel turned away from the ruin. “I hate
him for it!” she cried. “I hate him for killing
whatever is best in me! I hate him because
I can’t live without him!”

“I hope you’ve relieved yourself . . .”
Cecil’s cool censorious voice was like a clash
of ice-water on Isabel's anger.

“Relieved myself . . . ” Isabel threw her-
self upon the couch, and lay there motionless.
She was still lying there when Cecil, glancing
at her watch, realized that it was after nine,
and knew she would be late to the office.

Isabel began to shiver. After all, it was
December, and she had on nothing but a thin
nightgown. An attack of the “flu” would
hardly improve matters. With this philo-
sophical reflection, Isabel arose from the divan
and began to walk toward her bedroom. As
she turned, her eyes fell upon the calendar on
which she and Cecil scrawled their daily en-
gagements. It was Thursday. She' had
promised Susie to shop with her that after-
noon.

Squaring her shoulders, Isabel entered her

bedroom and began to dress.

* * *

Cyril Ilarcourt, a tall stooping man with
eyes like a vulture’s, and a stern, finely mould-
ed mouth, was known by all his colleagues as
a stickler for efficiency. He had been a lawyer
before he became senior partner of Ilarcourt,
Hutchinson <fc Vincennes, and his affairs were
carried on with an excessively legal exacti-
tude. Nevertheless the severe lines of his face
relaxed, and the keen eyes softened somehwat ,
when Cecil entered.

“Good morning, Miss Rayburn,” he said.
“You are” — he glanced at the leather travel-
ling-clock on his desk — “you are just fifty-four
minutes late. This is quite unpardonable.”

“Shall I leave at once,” Miss Rayburn in-
quired formally, “or shall I wait until even-
ing?”

Then Mr. Harcourt and Miss Rayburn
looked at one another and laughed. “I think
you had better stay, Miss Rayburn,” said
Mr. Harcourt.

A few hours later the same two made their
way through a restaurant packed with men,
and seated themselves at a small table.

Having delivered the optimistic prediction
of a big bull market due after the New Year,
Mr. Harcourt inquired genially: “How’s the
little sister?”

Cecil had long known that her stern and
irascible employer was capable of a vast deal
of tender sympathy.

“Isalxd’s in rotten shape,” Cecil admitted.
“She spent the morning smashing up the best
piece of sculpturing she ever turned out. Her
sweetheart’s given her the air, and Adrian’s
been filling up her head with superstitious

Canadian Railroader , Montreal

December, 1926: Vol. X., No. 4

nonsense. He thought he was being chased
by a — a white leopard. And he told Isabel
some nonsense about its being an omen.”

Cecil paused while Mr. Harcourt gave the
waiter their order.

Mr. Harcourt with a rueful smile, said: “l
think little Isabel will get what she wants.
But it’ll be a hard siege, my dear, and there’ll
be wreckage in her trail, broken hearts and
what not.”

Cecil looked up at Mr. Harcourt with
anguished eyes, though her voice was as calm
as ever.

“What shall I do?” asked Cecil.

“A friend of mine, Professor Brent, laid
down a law for the answer to such a question.
‘Do nothing.’ Beware, Cecil, of meddling
with the machinations of the gods, for they
are jealous gods, and like to play their little
games alone. And now’ said Mr. Harcourt,
abruptly changing the subject, “I have
another matter to speak of. Yesterday I re-
ceived another visit from your charming Aunt
Veronica. And I must say that, charming as
she is, she’s hardly the person to be left
executrix of a will.”

“Well, you do the managing,” said Cecil,
and added: “What did she want this time?”

“She came for legal advice,” replied Mr.
Harcourt briefly. “Do you remember, about
a week ago, that some of her bonds matured ?”
Cecil nodded. “Well, I handed her over about
ten thousand dollars in cash, with the paternal
advice to put it in Liberty Bonds. She had
a tip on Johnson Petroleum which has been
going up and down like a drunken ther-
mometer, and wanter me to buy it for her.
When I told her I wouldn’t, she got exces-
sively cross and walked out of the office.
Well, it seems that she walked down the street
until she came to a house which announced
oil a sign that it had a direct wire — you know
the kind.”

“I can guess,” chuckled Cecil. “A wire ex-
tending directly under the desk in the order
department.”

“More than likely. At any rate, Veronica
walked in, got the manager of this outfit, and
told him she wanted a thousand shares of
‘Johnson Pet.’ at the market. They reported
the purchase of the stock at sixty, and said
they were mailing her receipt and confirma-
tion at once, and to l>e ready for a margin
call at short notice. Oddly enough,” said Mr.
Harcourt, “her tip was straight. Johnson
went up eleven points before the market
closed. Regular skyrocket stuff. Her con-
firmation wasn’t in the mail next morning,
and by noon, with the stock up another eight
points, she called up the place and told them
to sell at the market. And here’s the joker:
they came right back with a ‘Must have
made an err r, Madam; we have no record
of your name on our books.’ And that was
all she could get. They stuck to the story
that they had never heard of her. Even if
the thing came to court, there’d probably be
a dozen people to swear she was crazy. So
you see — ”

“That Aunt Veronica’s out ten thousand
l right little dollars, and has absolutely no
comeback,” supplemented Cecil.

“ t looks that way,” Harcourt called the
waiter and paid his cheque. This is the sort
rf firm we come up against every day. I’d
bke to overstep my rights and carry on a
ittle investigation of my own. And I want
you to help me, Cecil, because I can trust
you implicitly.”

“Who are they?” Cecil asked, flushing
faintly at the compliment.

“Firm calls itself Burnham & Levy. Have
their main offices in Philadelphia — by the
way, I’ll be wanting you to run over there
ater on — and a branch here. I^evv has
money and Burnham brains. But they’re a
pair of thieves and I don’t care who hears me
say it. I understand Burnham used to run a
gambling-house at Saratoga and another out-
side of Atlantic City until six years ago.”

He looked at Cecil, who met his gaze with
a stare of incredulity before she burst into
uncontrollable laughter. “Take me back and
put me to work,” she commanded. “I think
I’m going through the preliminary stages of

“dementia praecox’.”

* * *

A mild atmosphere of mystery surrounded
the figure of Richard Du Maurier, like an
aureole of light.

He had made his first appearance in the
articular set of New York society with which
e later became identified — a set in which the
men played polo and the women angled for
titles — during that season which followed the
signing of the Armistice. His excellent horse-
manship and his taste in dress satisfied the
male faction of his new acquaintance. Women
could find no more perfect ornament for a
drawing-room or a box at the opera than this
eternally cool, charming, and ‘degage’ young
man. At the end of his first season Du Maurier
had become a fixture.

There were, of course, the bankers, whose
opinions did not always coincide with those
of their offspring. Among those of a more
practical turn of mind some disparaged his
lack of occupation, others — influenced by
their women, or else seeing beneath the mask
of frivolity a shrewd and agile mind — pointed
out profitable openings in steel corporations
or railroad syndicates, and priceless oppor-
tunities in Wall Street. These Du Maurier
turned down with a bland smile and the
honest reply that ne would ratner be idle on
a moderate income than hurried and worried
on a hundred thousand a year.

Thus he remained sought after and single.
So iety set aside its usual prying distaste for
mystery and admitted with one accord that
in Du Maurier it was charming. Du Maurier,
perfectly aware of this, continued blithely
manufacturing mystery, where no mystery
was .

Susie Burnham told him: “I like you be-
cause you’re so different. I feel it would take
me years and years, perhaps for ever, to know
all about you. You’re such a mysterious per-
son, Du Maurier. And I ... I just love
mystery.”

“That’s fine,” he responded, overlooking
the obvious opening.

On the morning of Isabel’s destruction of
the statue, and Cyril Harcourt’s amazing
revelation to Cecil, Richard Du Maurier said:
“Susannah, you’re a designing minx.”

“But,” contradicted Susie, “I’m not
designing, Du Maurier.”

“At all events, you’re a minx, an adorable
minx.”

An unprecedented dimple showed itself in
the corner of Susie’s mouth. “I don’t know
what a minx is,” she exclaimed mischievously,
“excepting, of course, the kind of minks they
use in the kind of cape my father won’t buy
me.”

“Dear infant, don’t say there’s anything
your father won’t buy for you, even when you
weep a la Lizzie.”

“Oh, I don’t know what’s happened to my
father,” she whispered. “He used to be so
sweet and generous. And now — he’s closed
my accounts at three stores* he won’t let me
get any new jewelry * why, hb’s even forbidden
me to buy another hat.”

“It strikes me,” suggested Du Maurier,
who like most men preferred the role of com-
forted to the role of comforter, “that you
already have a vast number of hats.”

“Nonsense,” said Susie with unwonted
sharpness — and at once perceived the blunder.
“I haven’t anything else,” she wailed. “Just
clothes and jewels and food ... all empty
material things. They’re all I have, and now
they’re taking even those away. Oh, nobody
understands me. Nobody cares for me. I
haven’t any . . any . . any . . thing . . ”

The last few syllables were interspersed
with soblike catches at her breath. Susie
hesitated, then turned upon Du Maurier eyes

moist and brown, eyes helpless and inviting.
Whereupon Du Maurier, flesh of Adam and,
worse still, of Eve, said what was expected of
him.

“You have me, my dear, if that counts at
all,” said Du Maurier, and afterwards,
although it was against his rules to kiss before
luncheon, he bent down and pressed his lips
against Susie’s poppy-red mouth.

Another hour had been broken upon the
wheel of time.

Richard Du Maurier his mind awhirl with
a hazy confusion of warm red lips and soft
red hair, strolled across Fiftieth Street, and
down Fifth Avenue towards a justly famous
florist shop.

At the top of a broad staircase, in a sweet-
scented narcotic gloom, he was greeted by the
presiding spirit in that particular, semi-
familiar tone reserved for customers of long
standing who are prompt about paying their
bills. In the green-shaded silence, that casual
voice sounded almost oracular. “The gar-
denais,” it said, “are very nice to-day. I’ve
put a pair of good big ones aside for you.”

And immediately, irritated by the placid
expectation of the words, Du Maurier replied
negatively: “That was kind of you, but I’m
going to cut out gardenias. I want — let me
see — a carnation, I think. Yes, a dark red
carnation.” Irrelevantly a picture of Isabel
came into Du Maurier’s mind, and with a
wholly unusual sense of guilt, a shame that
changed to positive annoyance at sight of the
presiding spirit’s amazement, he added lang-
uidly: “Gardenias are so perishable, so very
perishable. Really, the best of them arc
hardly good for an evening. ...”

Smiling in a kind of self-directed irony,
Du Maurier drew the red carnation into his
buttonhole and, with a shrug at futile pon-
derings, went out into the street.

CHAPTER VII
Susie and Isabelle

Luncheon that day started by being a silent
and gloomy meal for Susie and her mother.
Mrs. Burnham, who had arrived just as
Du Maurier was leaving, had been foolish
enough to censure a certain person’s idleness;
she and Susie had quarrelled furiously until
the arrival of the postman with a letter
mailed in Philadelphia united them in a sullen
protest against Isaac’s high-handedness.

“That caps the climax!” Susie pointed to
the end of Isaac’s letter, in the postscript to
which he mentioned the probability of a pro-
longed visit to the metropolis, since, owing to
unforeseen circumstances, he was planning to
shut down his New York office.

“It’s a stall,” snarled Olive.

“I can’t dope him at all.” Susie picked up
the letter, as though constant perusal might
impress facts upon a mind accustomed to
evading all unpleasant issues.

“I have a fitting up town at three, and
Isabel’s coming back to tea,” Susie announced,
having subdued her vexed spirit. “Come on
in and help me decide what to wear tonight.
Gee, it makes me sick. Bertie’s seen every
dress I own.”

Mrs. Burnham seized upon the opportunity
to relieve herself by resuming their former
argument. “I am delighted,” she said, “to
hear that you do not intend spending all
your time with the lazy intellectual you
picked up in the theatre.”

Susie made an about-face which would have
done credit to a veteran of the world war.
“Mother! If you mean Du Maurier — you
know Isabel intro — ” Hairpins flew about
and tinkled on the hardwood floor.

“Very well, Susie.” Mrs. Burnham fol-
lowed her daughter into her daughter’s room
and cautiously shut the door in Parbara’s
face. “That doesn’t give him enough money
to support you, you extravagant child,” con-
tinued Olive provocatively. “And this is cer-
tainly the last time for you to pursue — er
fruitless intimacies.”

December, 1926: Vol. X., No. 4

Canadian Railroader, Montreal

Susie, now at the stage of smearing her
pink face with thick white cream, responded
almost absently: “Of course, I realize that
you’re anxious to get me out of the way,
married off daddy’s hands. Of course, I
realize that in that case there’d be more in it
—for you.” And she looked up, awaiting the
certain animosity of the reply.

But Olive Burnham’s anger had collapsed
like a pricked windbag. When ne/.t she spoke,
a change had come into her voice, a curious
change, so that it seemed to be an echo of the
voice which must have been hers at twenty.
“Suey, my girl,” Olive whispered, “don’t sa\
that, please. Suey, you know it’s not true.
You know I love my baby better than any-
thing. But you’re not a child any more.
Two years and you’ll be twenty-five. And
women get old so soon. It’s time for you to
marry, and marry well. It’s no time for you
to keep company like a third-grade parlour-
maid.”

If there was one thing to crystallize Susie’s
affection for Du Maurier, it was her mother’s
opposition. “Now, Mother,” she began,
‘‘don’t let’s start all over. I like Du Maurier.
I like him a lot. I’ll marry anyone I want.”

“If your father lost his money — ”

Olive’s daughter laughed. “That wouldn’t
matter. Why, I’d slave for a man I loved,
mother.”

“I thought that once,” said Olive.

Susie, startled by the tone of her mother’s
speech, looked up. There were tears, bright
as diamonds, on her mother’s lashes. “Oh,
cheer up, mom!” cried Susie, rushing over to
present her mother with a creamy kiss.
“Everything’s going to be all right.” After
which she proceeded to remove the grease
from her face with an embroidered guest-
towel.

“Susannah,” screamed Olive, “you’re wip-
ing your dirty face on my show-towel! Oh,
you miserable little wretch! Slave for a man,
would you ? Not if you knew it.” And so on, on,
and on, until little Susie, flinging her fur coat
about her with a despairing gesture, rushed
from the scene, crying:

“You’re a nasty old thing, and it would
serve you right if I got run over, and never
came back. ...”

Susie did not get run over, but arrived
safely at the Plaza, where Isabel was waiting.

“Do hurry, darling,” exclaimed Susie, as
she rushed up and seized her friend’s hands.
“We’re most horribly late, and I have a
million things to attend to.

“It’s all right, Susie,” Isabel said reassur-
ingly. “What on earth kept you?”

“Mother — mother, of course. You don’t
know r how horried she can be. She always
puts up a front when you’re there. She called
Du Maurier — ”

Susie and Isabel swung westward; the large
plate-glass doors of an expensive establish-
ment opened to receive them. The subject of
Du Maurier — absorbing to both of them
was thrust into the background while they
reviewed a pageant of velvet toques drooping
with paradise, twisted metal cloth turbans,
and charming bell shapes just in from Paris.

A tall white-haired man with a red necktie
and an authoritative manner sent people
flying to get a buckram shape, which would
eventually be covered with velvet and adorned
with Mrs. Burnham’s aigrettes. In the ex-
pectant calm, Susie asked Isabel whether she
had seen Du Maurier.

“Not since Saturday night.” To compen-
sate for the hurt to her pride, Isabel supple-
mented: “I’ve been terribly busy.”

“I'll bet he’s called you up a dozen
times, hasn’t he?”

“Have you seen him?” Isabel coun-
tered.

“Oh, yes, he’s the sweetest thing, my
dear, just as nice as you said he was.
Only this morning he — but this is ridicu-
lous! What I wanted to ask you was —

tave £ , kn.w/“* M "’ ym 1 **

Isabel heard herself replying: “What
utter nonsense! I’m much too busy
working to be in love with Dick or any-
body else. She interrupted herself in
order to secure a soft blue turban. “Isn’t
this lovely, Susie? It’s just my color.”
And Isabel began to remove the long
diamond and sapphire pins fro mher own
hat. Why did you have to know?”

“It is a lovely color. YLou don’t mind
11 1 tr y lt on while you’re taking off your
hat? I had to know because if you had
been in love with him— you see, Isabel
darling, whatever faults I have, I have
one virtue too — fairness. And if you
were in love with him, why, he must
know it. And if he knew it, why, he had
no business making love to me.” She
gave the blue hat a fierce little tug, and
regarded herself in the mirror with a
widening *mile. “Isn’t it lovely? It
might have been designed for me. I’ll
just wear it right out.” She added, as
an afterthought: “You didn’t want it
anyway, did you?”

“Of course not. I really don’t want
any.”

“I knew you didn’t. You aren’t weak,
the way I am, about these things. Well,
now that we’ve settled that, we can get
back to Richard.”

“You see,” Susie said, “I have to make
myself beautiful for him. I have so
little, Isabel, and the more I get, the less
it seems I have. He’s all that really
matters to this poor, poor little rich girl.
Will you help me, Isabel?”

“I’ll try.” And Isabel, trapped, rose
abruptly, mumbled some sort of an ex-
cuse, and got out of the stifling sweet-
ness of that unforgettable place. “And
I will try,” she promised herself fiercely.

As she rode down through the light-
pricked mauve of the winter evening, it
was with a heart hardened against her
own grief, and a mind filled with stub-
born resolve. “I have plenty of re-
sources,” Isabel thought. “I have my
work, I have my father to look after, I
have Cecil; I have the satisfaction of a
double loyalty, to my friendship with
Susie, to my own convictions of right and
wrong. I will not see Du Maurier
again.” A sudden overwhelming percep-
tion of the beauty of the sacrifice lifted
Isabel upon invisible wings, so that she
felt herself soaring far above a city of
passion and pettiness, a city of greed,
Beauty, enfolding her, wrapped her in
peace.

From Anastasie Isabel learned that her
sister had gone with Potter to dine at
Giuseppe Cappo’s restaurant on Thirty-
ninth Street.

Adrian greeted his daughter with a
brief nod and the grin of a gargoyle.
“I hope you haven’t just decided never
to see your young man again,” he volun-
teered, with his peculiar characteristic
of hitting the nail on the head, and Isabel
in a tendered spot, “because he called
this afternoon and announced his inten-
tion of coming back tonight.”

“Because Susie has another engage-
ment,” Isabel thought. “Oh, Lord!”

CHAPTER VIII.

DU MAURIER APPEARS

Isabel’s immediate problem was whe-
ther or not to receive Du Maurier that

night. Her duty was plain. She must
receive Du Maurier as though nothing
had happened. She must evade the sub-
ject of the “Orpheus and Eurydice” and
conceal its destruction. She had the im-
pulse to deck and adorn herself for the
event.

In the studio there was one panel
which was a safe. In it a locked black
box, filled with jewels belonging to
women now dead, to Adrian’s wife and
Adrian s mistresses.

“Give me the key, pupaw.”

Adrian showed no surprise as she
burst into his room holding the box in
trembling hands. “Bring me the box.
Put it here on my bed.”

^ was open. Clinking, the jewels
tumbled across the knees of the brown
distorted man.

Diamonds of the old mine cut, white
and blue . . . Rich rubies still after

years in their swathings of cotton hot
and red as tiny chalices filled with
blood. . . . These belonged to a woman
Adrian had known before he married
Helena. A Spanish girl with wonderful
arms, whose name was Maria Dolo-
rosa. . . . Pearls, large and white and
lustreless. Helena’s pearls.

Adrian watched his daughter as she
adorned herself — as she put on the many
rings, more and ever more, until her
hands were heavy with dull white dia-
monds; the many bracelets, until her
arms were cut with crimson bands, crim-
son welts like the welts made by a long
whip. Then, as she twisted the pearls
about her throat, Adrian spoke.

“Take them off. My God, they’re
dead! They make you look like a
mummy.”

Reality, amazing instant of reality.

“I’m being a fool,” Isabel said aloud.
“I’ll go into the studio and put this
— this stuff — away. I wish I’d never
touched it.”

She came to the bed to take the box.
His hand closed upon her arm. “You’re
so — female, Isabell. You’ll never give
him up.”

“I will! I will! I’ll send him away
tonight!” And stumbling, defiant, she
went from the room.

She stood beside the table in the
studio. She had taken off the pearls.
In the lamplight she looked at her hands
and her arms. Only the rubies had kept
their color: the rubies that were red as
wine, red as the summer sun, red as red
blood.

“I’m like a ruby,” Isabel thought. “In
high temperature they change color . . .
turn green.”

She became conscious of a sound of
knocking, took herself in hand. She
knew that Du Maurier had come. She
could see him standing there outside of
her consciousness, see the look on his
face. She knew that he was stirred, un-
masked for a moment.

“Hello, there,” she called. “Throw
your coat anywhere.”

His face clouded up. The mask slid
back into place. But beneath it he
seether with a new knowledge. “She is
a woman! Isabel is a woman! Not an
artist. Never, never the creator of
statues! A woman, a creator of man.”

“You have come to see the ‘Orpheus,’ ”
she said.

He had come to see her — for the first
time — to see the woman.

Canadian Railroader . Montreal

December , /926: Ko/. X.. No. 4

“I’ll show it to you presently, when l
get rid of this junk.” Ridiculous banal-
ities. “What have you been doing with
yourself, old man?”

He watched the red welts of rubies on
her white arms, like the marks of a
whip. “Don’t take them off, they’re
wonderful!” he said. He watched her
arms.

“I must take them off!”

Stripping away the jewels like red
fire, she threw them in the box, shut
the black lid upon them.

“You came to see the ‘Orpheus’?”

“Yes. I came to see it. Is it finish-
ed?”

“Quite — finished.”

The arm, all white now, reached to a
cover on a wooden stand. The cover was
gone.

Man and woman were gone.

Artist and critic faced each other over

the wreck of clay.

* * *

Isabel was alone when Cecil and Pot-
ter returned to the studio.

“Oh, we had such a wonderful time!”
Cecil announced hilariously. “We ate at
Giuseppe’s, and then went to the Rialto.”

She paused in the midst of lighting
her cigarette.

“Did Du Maurier call up by any
chance?”

“He was here.”

“How’d you ever ^et rid of him with
such admirable dispatch?” Potter
stretched out his legs and reclined lux-
uriously.

“Did Cecil tell you what happened to
the ‘Orpheus’ this morning?”

“Yump! And I told her that now I
knew that Barnum was right.”

“Well, Isabel, I showed it to Dick.”

“Oh, my God!” wailed Cecil. “What
an awful confession of undying love.
Now he’ll be more unbearable than
ever!” She blew a long wieath of
smoke out through her nostrils. “What
did lie say?”

“Oh, he was a perfect b'^ast!” cried
Isabel, momentarily forgetting her pride
and the presence of Potter. “What do
you suppose he did say?”

Potter, silent, effaced himseif, taking-
in every word.

Cecil replied quite calmly: “Tnat you
were a bigger fool than he thought you
were. That a fine statue belonged to
the world and not to you. That you had
no right to destroy it, and that you
made him sick.”

Isabel stared. “Well,” she said at last,
“you’re one peach of a character judge.”
She saw Potter, became aware of his
keen glance, changed the subject. “How
were things at the office today? Any
news?”

“Yes,” said Cecil, lightly. “Veronica
French, the poor fish, dropped a paltry
little ten thousand.” But Cecil did not
mention the name of the firm where the
ten thousand had been “dropped.”

“Yes,” said Potter, lazily lifting him-
self from the floor, “Barnum sure was
right. Good night, young ladies.”

* * *

An old-fashioned fire of cannel-coal
burning in an iron grate threw a tanger-
ine-colored glow about a room some-
where in the West Fifties. Close to the
fire a chair was drawn, and on the hearth
lay a wire-haired fox-terrier, nose rest-
ed tentatively between placid paws.

The door opened.

The terrier awoke sniffing, yelping,
helplessly rolling with delight. Richard

Du Maurier, strolling towards the fire-
place was instantly surrounded by one
joyful dog, who seemed to occupy the
space, to make the noise, of a thousand
gratified pups.

“Good evening, Achilles,” said Du
Maurier gravely, grasping his room-
mate in the middle and swinging 1-im
aloft. Returned to his rug, Achilles
curled up and went promptly back to
sleep.

Du Maurier proceeded to remove his
overcoat, his jacket, and his vest. Don-
ning a dressing-gown of badly worn blue
velvet, he went to the big paper-littered
desk in the corner. There he switched
on a powerful modern reading-lamp, and
produced pen, ink and a writing-tablet.

Before settling to a task of obvious
importance, Du Maurier made a com-
placent survey of the room. Everything
was as it should be: the fire glowed, the
dog slept, the bed was turned back, the
shades were drawn, the telephone in the
corner was switched off. The landlady
below, if anyone chanced to ask for Mr.
Richard Du Maurier, would never think
of associating him with the gentleman
who had occupied the third floor rear
for the past four years. The few people
who were party to his secret were safe
as mutes. In fact, Du Maurier conclud-
ed, he was secure as a monk in a cell.

When he had written a few pages, Du
Maurier said aloud: “This will make an
excellent beginning for chapter nine,”
after which he continued to write indus-
triously.

CHAPTER IX.

CHRISTMAS EVE.

Cyril Harcourt belonged to the genial
old set which regarded Christmas Eve
as a fitting and proper time for family
reunions. Every year Veronica French
and her two nieces were invited to par-
take of a mighty dinner, and to help
decorate the spreading evergreen with
bright baubles and gifts wrapped in
scarlet. Adrian, too, was invited, but
he always refused.

This year, as though Adrian’s surly
negative were not enough. Isabel an-
nounced that she was not going, either.

“You and Aunt Veronica will have to
support the family honor between you,”
she told Cecil. “I don’t fancy you’ll sink
under the burden.”

Cecil started. “Not going? Why,
what nonsense! Of course you’re go-
ing.”

“I’m not.”

“Why?”

“For one thing, I’ve told Anastasie to
take the night off, and I won’t leave pu-
paw here alone — in his condition.”

This excuse, though not convincing,
was valid enough.

Still, “we can always get a woman to
come in,” said Cecil, who knew perfectly
well that Isabel’s reasons for refusing
had nothing to do with her father.

“Have you another engagement?”

Isabel met Cecil’s gaze squarely. Cer-
tainly not. I shall work on the figure
of Sappho, finish it, perhaps.”

But on Christmas Eve, as she wrapped
her cloak about her, Cecil broke out
rebelliously : “You’re a little fool.” For
Du Maurier had not so much as tele-
phoned. “I wouldn’t make myself that
miserable for any man.”

Isabel’s eyes swept somewhat con-
temptuously over the smooth expanse of
bare shoulder which showed above her

sister’s wrap. Then quickly she looked
down at her own rough smock. “After
all,” said Isabel, deliberately choosing to
misunderstand, “it’s my father.”

“The deuce it is!” Cecil flung back,
and went out slamming the door.

Isabel picked up a lump of clay and
began rolling it between her fingers.
But she was too restless to work. She
went in and sat down near Adrian’s
bed.

“Go away.” He glanced up with a
look almost apprehensive. “I want to
be alone.”

“Oh, pupaw!” Isabel’s face clouded.
“On Christmas Eve? Why, it’s the one
night of the year when you ought to feel
convivial and friendly. Besides, I stay-
ed home to be near you, so you must let
me.”

Adrian did not smile. He was no
longer susceptible to flattery.

“We’ll pass over that lie,” he said, “be-
cause I suppose it’s for your own vanity’s
sake, as well as mine.”

“A year ago,” Adrian reminded her,
“you couldn’t imagine Christmas being
lonesome or sad. Yet here you are,
home alone and wretched because of a
stupid clinging to the belief that a man
for whom you care will choose to sur-
pr'se you with a call on Christmas Eve.”

With that he appeared to go into a
reverie, forgetting all about Isabel, who
grew rather uncomfortable.

Then Adrian awoke from his reverie
and barked at her: “I thought I told you
I wanted to be alone.”

She stood up, her nerves jangling
from the sudden shock of sound.

“Give me a drink and get out. My
lungs are still good, oddly enough. I’ll
call if I want you. Give me a drink
and go.”

“Pupaw, you promised to cut down.”

“The hell I did. Get me a drink, Isa-
bel, and be quick about it.”

Afterwards. “Don’t mind me, young-
ster,” Adrian half apologized. He ran
his tongue slowly across the edge of the
glass, as if this faint savour of whiskey
were some rare sensual delight. “This is
one of my bad nights, worse luck for
you. Run along into the studio and wait
for your lover to call. . . .”

“That is not likely to happen. . . .”

“It is Christmas Eve,” Adrian answer-
ed, sipping delicately. “Almost any-
thing is likely to happen.”

“Anything but that. . . .” Isabel
thought, as she went into the studio and
resolutely addressed the statue of Sap-
pho, finished except a few small touches.
Small, important touches — gradually
they drew her attention away from the
silent telephone, so that it was ten
o’clock before she stood up, rubbed the
sticky green mud from her hands, and
realized that her work was done. And,
“anything but that,” she repeated. “For
he won’t come now.”

Slowly she stripped off the rough blue
smock and stood there, a slender figure
in a slip of soft gold-colored stuff. After
a time she took up a book which lay on
a table, alternately reading and musing,
until the clock struck again and she left
a deeper silence behind its ringing call.
Then she put the book away and turned
down the lights.

The room was dark, save where the
light from Adrian’s doorway painted a
pale rectangle on the floor. And Isabel
felt sorry for their short-lived beauty;
so sorry that her throat tightened; so
sorry that she turned away from the

December, 1926: Vol. X., No. 4

window, groping about the room until
she found a chair. There she sat with
her hands over her face, while hot salty
tears trickled like white blood between
her fingers. There she sat until the
clock struck midnight, when she raised
her head and knew it was Christmas
Day.

And, in that same instant she heard
a sound behind her, and, turning, saw

the studio door swing slowly open. . . .

* * *

“Oh-h-h. . . . drifting along along

with the ti-i-de ” Buzz. Buzz.

“Da-de-da-dee, dadeeseeee. . . .” Buzz.
Buzz. Da-dum-dum. . . .”

“Do you suppose they’ll ever stop ar-
riving?” exclaimed Cecil. “It’s past mid-
night now, and they’re still going-
strong.”

“Fashionable tardiness, my dear,” said
the woman to whom she was speaking.
“These Deople are all very fond of Cyr’l.
So they get tight before they come over,
instead of drinking his liquor.”

Cecil replied trivially. She was not
having a thoroughly enjoyable time to-
night — poor Cecil. Her mind would keep
turning to Isabel’s unwarranted absence,
and then, over and over, to Mr. Har-
court’s shaken head and disappointed
smile. She had tried to cheer him as
best she could, but her efforts met with
small success. The worldly witticisms
of Mrs. French seemed more to his lik-
ing. Cecil looked carefully at her aunt,
and realized for the first time that she
did not, that she most definitely did not,
care for her.

Mrs. French was a tall woman, slen-
derly built, but all curves; that rare type
of figure which the French call fausse
maigre. Her complexion had the bloom
and velvet smoothness of twenty sum-
mers — twenty summers of skillfully ap-
pked creams and judiciously avoided
sunlight.

She and Cecil were standing together
upon the staircase, from which they
commanded an excellent view of the room
below, where two orchestras played al-
ternately, and eternal couples circled
about the lighted Christmas-tree.

“A charming picture, is it not,” said
Mr. Harcourt, coming up behind the two
women.

“Oh, it’s splendid, C. H. Christmas
wouldn’t be Christmas without it!” cried
Cecil.

Mr. Harcourt flashed Cecil a grateful
smile, but it was to her aunt that he
turned. “Where are your thoughts,
Veronica? Far away, I’ll wager.”

“Indeed not. There — ” Mrs. French
swept out her hand toward the dance
floor below. She laughed, quietly and
irrelevantly; turned with a consciously
graceful movement, and slowly descend-
ed the stairs, her black velvet train
sweeping behind her.

Mr. Harcourt touched Cecil’s arm.

“Cecil, my child, I don’t know where
I’d be without you to buck me up. You
are my greatest comfort in moments
when I am sorely tried.” He pressed
her hands quickly. “I must go back to
jny guests, infant, and quickly, or I shall
be saying things which I have no right
to say — yet — ” so with these words he
turned and left Cecil, left her with a new
warm tingling in her hand and her arm,
even in her heart.

Afterwards she stood for a while like
one in a dream. Then she tripped
nghtly up the stairs, separated her
wrap from several hundred others, and

(laslK ,<| down again. She wanted sud-
denly to get back to Isabel, for in her
present mood she felt competent to pull
down the barrier which had recentlv
come between them.

CHAPTER X.

A MIDNIGHT PARTY.

Guests were still arriving when she
reached the door, where she was greeted
by a pair of old acquaintances. After
about ten minutes of conversation, the
female of the species turned to her hus-
band, and exclaimed: “What’s become of
Dick?”

“I suppose he’s still out in the car,”
replied her husband. “That’s where I
left him.”

“How perfectly absurd! Bring him in
at once!”

“But he doesn’t want to come in, dear-
est.”

“Bring him in at once, Horatio.”

Shortly afterwards a flushed and
triumphant Horatio dragged in a bored
and sulky Du Maurier.

“Hello, there — ” Cecil made no at-
tempt to conceal the fact that she was
more amazed than pleased. “I hardly
expected to see you.”

“Nor I you,” said Du Maurier; and he
looked about, Cecil thought, with an air
of nervous discomfort. “I say, where’s
Isabel?”

“At home.”

“At home? Why did she leave so
early?”

“She hasn’t been here.” Cecil hesi-
tated, and then went on in a subtly ac-
cusing voice: “She didn’t want father
to be alone, so she stayed at home.”

“Poor kid, all by herself the night be-
fore Christmas! If you’re going back
I’ll come along.”

It seemed to Cecil that he deliberately
hastened their departure. She was con-
vinced that for an unknown reason he
d d not want Cyril Harcourt to see him.
In any case, they were soon in a taxi
chugging down Fifth Avenue.

“What’s the big idea?” Cecil demanded
rudely.

Du Maurier made a movement of
languid innocence. “I had a whim . . .
Rather wanted to wish Isabel a Merry
Christmas.”

Du Maurier leaned back and idly
counted the street lamps as they fled
past.

“I didn’t know you knew C. II.,” Cecil
remarked at last, curiosity conquering
her taciturn mood. “I once asked him
about you — he’d never even heard the
name.”

“Hadn’t he?” sa d Du Maurier, non-
committally.

Something in Cecil snapped. “Damn
you, Du Maurier!” she cried. “You have
some secret. You’re sailing under false
colors, and I mean to find out why!”

Du Maurier stretched out his legs and
regarded two delicate reflections on the
tips of his patent leather boots.

“Solving riddles is a splendid mind-
trainer,” he finally observed.

Cecil was too angry to reply.

* * *

It was at approximately this time that
Isabel, facing about, saw the studio

swing open. *

Outlined against the golden light of
the outer hall she perceived the figure

Canadian Hailroadcr, Montreal

of StocK bridge Potter, pale, disheveled,
and with difficulty supported by a
strange young man with a purple neck-
tie.

Isabel moved rapidly to the table:
switched on the lamp.

“Say, does this guy live here?” in-
quired the strange young man, blinking,
Just then Potter’s knees gave way en-
tirely and he sagged to the floor. Isabel
took his feet, the strange young man
grasped him firmly beneath the arm-
pits, and between them they managed
to carry him to the divan.

Only then did Isabel raise frightened
inquiring eyes to the stranger and stam-
mer: “What happened! is . . . was there
an accident?”

Keep your shirt on,” he advised with
an engaging smile. “S’not wood alcohol,
or anything like that your brother’s got
Just a hard-boiled bun.”

Isabel recoiled sharply. “He isn’t my
brother.”

She thought a shade of dismay passed
over the stranger’s face. “Your hus-
band, Madam?” he inquired.

Isabel colored. “N-no,” and then,
catching sight of the stranger’s expres-
s on, she added with hasty severity:
“And since you took the trouble to ask,
he does not live here. Not at all.”

To her amazement the young man in
the purple necktie flushed deeply crim-
son. She noted he was a pleasant-look-
ing boy, with clear olive skin, framing
grey eyes as deep and pensive and heavy-
lashed as those of a young girl.

“I beg vour pardon,” he stammered
finally. “He told me this was his ad-
dress.”

The strange young man, who during
the latter part of the oration had been
fumbling in his pocket, remarked cheer-
fully. “Well, he’s out,” and producing
an immaculate card, upon which the name
of Wadsworth Silverstein and the ad-
dress of Silverstein’s Superior Suits Co.
were neatly printed, he proffered it to
Isabel in his courtliest manner.

“My name is Rayburn, Isabel Ray-
burn, “ she responded, holding out her
hand. “The gentleman on the divan,
who is so vastly indebted to you is Mr.
Stockbr'dge Potter, lately of the Ameri-
can Consulate in Cairo. Perhaps you
will be good enough to tell me where
you met — or shall I say found — him.”

“You shall say ‘found,’” agreed the
obliging Mr. Silverstein. “And I’d be
tickled to death to tell you anything.”
Thereupon he removed his overcoat,
hung it over the back of the most un-
comfortable chair, and sat down. “I
discovered him sitting on the curbstone
in front of Jimmie Cassidy’s old saloon
up to Forty-e ghth Street. He gave me
this address, you see. As for being in-
debted. . . .” Mr. Silverstein shrugged
magnanimously, “seeing that it’s helped
me to meet you,” he said. “I’ll say it was
a pleasure, and we’ll call it square.”

“Thank you,” answered Isabel, but so
coldly and stiffly that she might better
have voiced a reproof. Isabel was more
of a snob than she cared to admit.

“Now see here, Miss Rayburn, i don't
want you to get me wrong. I’m not try-
ing to be fresh, only — ” His long grey
eyes sought hers wistfully, but found no
help. I know you’re A 1 in the social
register, and all that. I’m not such a
dumb-bell that I can’t see the difference

Canadian Railroader , Montreal

December, 1926: Vol. X., No. 4

between us in that way. And — ” Still
no encouragement. “But I’ve never had
a chance to meet a girl like you. And
now that I have — well, I'd like to go on
knowing you. D'you see?”

Isabel did not know what t.o say;
therefore she said nothing.

When he spoke again, a fine edge of
sarcasm cut his words. “What shall we
do,” he asked, “with your good friend,
Mr. Potter, lately of the American Con-
sulate in Cairo?”

“I should let him sleep.”

The words, spoken in Cecil's voice,
brought Isabel and her companion
sharply about. Cecil, her evenir.g wrap
thrown back from gleaming shoulders,
stood smiling in amused self-possession.
Beside her was Richard Du Maurier.

“Merry Christmas,” he said, and bowed
to Isabel. He seemed to add: “Couldn't
you do better than this, poor girl?”

Isabel was too utterly astounded to
guard herself. “Why — Dick — ” She
took a step forward, her hands out-
stretched. “Why, Dick whatever

brought you . . . ?”

“A taxicab, my dear. An orange and
black one. I came,” Du Maurier added,
“in the hope of surprising you, but it
seems you have turned the tables on
me.”

Isabel explained. “Mr. Silverstein was
good enough to come to Stock's rescue,”
she said, smiling for the first time upon
the stranger. “I want you to know
him. My sister, Cecil. Mr. Silverstein.
And Du Maurier.”

Mr. Silverstein shook hands all the
way round. Mr. Du Maurier disengag-
ed his fingers, and looked at them as
though they were valuable antiques.

“Really,” said Isabel, “what are we
going to do?”

Cecil took command of the situation.

“It's Christmas Day!” she said. “Let's
each have a drink and some scrambled
eggs!”

CHAPTER XI.

ISABEL'S NEW ADMIRER.

Toward three o'clock Potter awoke
with a headache, to find a group of
solemn ^youngsters discussing matters
supposed to be discussed by sociologists.

Silverstein said: “I don't suppose I'll
ever be able to dope a social system
worked out on the basis of the age of
families. Take this fellow Potter. Now
Miss Rayburn's been telling me his
family were among the first settlers of
Maryland, and had all sorts of grants
from the king, and so on. Well — look
at him!”

Four faces turned in Potter’s direc-
tion.

Potter made a ceremonious bow, and
echoed :

“You're perfectly right. Here am I,
a Son of the Revolution, chip off the
Plymouth Rock, petted infant of a
mother with a family-tree that was old
when the tree of knowledge was planted.
Now you — ” he wagged his head gently
towards Silverstein. “You've gallons of
money. And yet you couldn't pass the
front door of clubs where I — the drunken
bum — would be accepted without a mur-
mur. Why, I bet your father came over
from Russia in the steerage, and peddled
shoe-strings for a living.”

Silverstein was more sensitive than
Potter. The blood rushed to his fore-
head; he started from his chair. Du

Maurier begged him not to take offense.

“Potter didn't mean to imply that it
was a disgrace. Something to be rather
proud of, you know — being a self-made
man. And truthfully, didn’t your
father peddle something?”

Du Maurier's hint of flattery turned
the trick. Although his eyes retained
the look of an injured puppy, Silverstein
relaxed. “Sure he did. Peddled second-
hand clothes down on the Bowery.
Then he worked in a sweatshop. Then
he got a shop of his own, and other fel-
lows worked for him. Now — ” the note
of belligerence, of challenge, roughened
his smooth voice — “he has four cars, two
of 'em foreign ones, and he could buy all
four of you four times over, see?”

No one cared to take up the challenge.

“Surely I see,” replied Potter, faintly
animated by signs of returning life.
“He could buy me four thousand times
over if he wanted to. And if he waits
long enough, he'll buy himself into the
place he wants to reach.”

“I wonder . . . .” Silverstone's eyes
seemed to fasten wistfully upon some
far-off and beautiful dream.

He answered : “Anything can be
bought.” And swunk suddenly upon
Potter. “How broke are you?” he asked.

By way of answer, Potter turned his
pockets inside out.

“But don't try to lend me money,” he
said ungraciously. “Because you won't
get it back, and I don't know you well
enough to rob you.”

Silverstein positively snorted. “Lend
you money? Hell, no! I'm offering you
a job. A job with Silverstein's Superior
Suits Company. Take it or leave it.”

No one interrupted him.

“Come home and sleep at my pa's
house tonight. Go to work tomorrow,
if you feel good; next day if you don't.
But show these folks that you got some
backbone, some guts, something besides
a family-tree.”

Potter grinned. “I haven't. But like
old Jurgen, I'll taste any drink once.
Even work.” He arose, stood swaying
uncertainly.

“For myself,” said Silverstein in fare-
well, having accepted the burden of the
excuses, “I can't say I'm sorry this hap-
pened. He turned directly to Isabel.
“I want to see you again. Will you have
lunch with me on Saturday, and go to a
show afterwards?”

Isabel stepped back. “I can't,” she
said frigidly. “I am engaged for Sat-
urday. Some other time, perhaps.”

Silverstein lowered his long lashes,
bowed ironically, and went out.

“You've made a conquest, my dear,”
said Richard Du Maurier, folding a
white silk muffler over his chest and
sliding into his fur-lined greatcoat.
“You ought to cultivate the young man.
I m sure — ” He paused, glanced care-
lessly about the room, and then let his
eyes dwell upon Isabel's arms. “I'm
sure,” said Richard Du Maurier, “that
he could give you lots of — rubies.”

* * *

The hectic week between Christmas
and New Year passed quickly. Its only
significance for Isabel lay in the fact
of a renewed contact with Du Maurier.
A casual contact which failed to simplify
a situation which Isabel found increas-
ingly painful. She tried to occupy her
mind with work. A girl called asking
for work as a model. She was a brown
Italian peasant with flat thighs, a firm

ample bosom, and a tragic history. Isa-
bel, delighted with her beautiful form,
her flashing teeth, and her melancholy
brown eyes, spent a week doing rapid
sketches in pencil and water color. One
January morning she realized that it was
time to pick a subject and start model-
ing.

x^apolita, resting on the divan, was
looking down at a cushion she held in
her arms.

Isabel flung up triumphant arms.

“Oh, Napolita,” she cried. “I’m going
to model you . . . model you with a baby
in your arms, Napolita, and I shall call
it ... I shall call it the ‘Madonna of the
Streets.' ”

Napolita, who understood nothing ex-
cept that she would have work, and,
therefore, food, sat smiling her whits
smile.

Isabel was still pouring over sketches
when Du Maurier dropped in. He found
the studio interesting. “What will
you call it?” he asked.

“I thought at first I should call it
‘Madonna of the Streets,' after the model
who was just that,” Isabel explained.
“Later I decided to name it ‘Eternal
Woman.' ”

“ ‘Eternal Huntress' would be better.”

“Why? Why ‘Eternal Huntress'?”

Du Maurier shrugged his shoulders
and glanced downward at the dark red
carnation in his button-hole.

“Eternal woman, or eternal huntress,”
he said at last, “it is one and the same
thing. For each woman is relentless in
her search for the father of those chil-
dren who will be her single great gift to
posterity.”

Isabel turned quite pink.

“Too bad you aren't an author,” she
snapped. “No doubt the world would
have worshipped at the shrine of your
eloquence. As for me, I recognize the
paraphrase. It’s from one of last year’s
novels.”

“Speaking of worship,” murmured Du
Maurier, “have you seen our friend Sil-
verstein ? ”

Isabel had not. In fact, had it not
been for Du Meurier's satirical refer-
ences, plus Stockbridge Potter, Isabel
certainly would have forgotten Silver-
stein entirely.

Potter was gradually becoming em-
bittered by a struggle against the harsh
cold world. Having accepted iSilver-
stein’s offer of a position, because his
friends refused to support him any
longer, he had worked regularly for the
first two weeks. Then he skipped a day,
and presently, less cautious, skipped
three.

Cecil prophesied that Potter’s work-
ing-days were drawing to a close. “He'll
last about one more week,” she observed.

* * *

It was a cold and gleaming Sunday.

Cecil and Isabel, having loaded the
table with sandwiches, tea-cups, bottles
and glasses, were prepared to welcome
any number of people; which was for-
tunate, for presently there was a violent
knocking and banging, followed by a
human avalanche which laughed, joked
and chattered in its descent upon the
studio.

Du Maurier and Susie came in with the
crowd. The women snubbed her.

Isabel took stock of the company,
greeting alike those she had known be-
fore and those she had not. There was
Colin Vincennes, the junior partner of
Harcourt, Hutchinson & Vincennes, a

December, 1926: Vol. X., No. 4

Canadian Railroader , Montreal

blond man with wicked black eyes, son
of a French Vicomte and an English
comedienne. He had just returned from
California, where his wife, Andrea Dar-
tie the composer, had been recovering
from the mild nervous shock of her first
husband’s suicide.

There were others whom Isabel knew

Edwin Dare, the dramatic critic; H.

Barclay Benson, anonymous author of
that socialistic volume entitled, “Them
As Has Gets.” There were a few ar-
tists who were neighbors. In fact, there
was a mob.

Frantic throwing off of coats and
mufflers was interspersed with shouts
of “Look here, Ruthie, where were you
on Wednesday? — I thought we had a
tea date,” and “Rod, for cat’s sake, don’t
sit on my new hat.”

Isabel went over to be presented to
Andrea Dartie, the composer. She was
rather taken aback when she learned
that this pale-skinned, auburn-haired
girl was a cousin of Du Maurier’s. She
had never fancied that Du Maurier, man
of mystery, would have a cousin who
was well known, who, moreover, lived
within a block of Isabel. Du Maurier
had not considered this contingency him-
self. Knowing Andrea, he was glad that
she liked him. She was one of the few
who knew his secret.

Du Maurier frankly classified his cou-
sin as the most ruthlessly selfish woman
he had ever met. Only in music did she
give. But for her husband she had a
violent physical attachment, jealous and
passionate; she guarded <him as a tigress
her cubs, with a cold and dangerous
ferocity. She kept what she took.

CHAPTER XII.

THE OCCULT WORLD

Isabel had spread out some of her
colored sketches of Napolita. Andrea
said:

“What a magnificent animal! How
silly to paint her as a madonna . . .
with a baby in her arms. She’s far too
handsome to have babies.” And Andrea
glanced almost apprehensively at her own
slender body.

“Don’t you want to have children?”
Isabel asked.

“No, I don’t want children.” Andrea’s
single concern with love was the pleas-
ure of experiencing it. “It’s unlucky in
my family. My mother died of it. So
did my grandmother. I am quite satis-
fied with living. I will leave the giving
of life to God and the lower classes.”

Isabel’s upper lip curled under. “You
are afraid,” she said.

Andrea nodded cheerfully. “My one
form of cowardice.”

“Then one should stay single.” Hotly
Isabel swept the sketches into an open
portfolio.

The composer leaned forward and took
Isabel’s hands. “What a woman you
are, my dear!” she whispered. “And
what a fool is Dick, to think that he can
escape this inexorable devotion! He is
certainly doomed to be the father of
your children. . . .”

Across the room shrill voices strug-
gled for supremacy. Glasses clinked.
The piano crashed on like an invading
army. Larry Sanville continued shout-
ing for Potter, who had not appeared.
Time slipped past and bottles began to
look empty.

Isabel shut her mind like a box and
decided to have a good time.

* * *

protested.' 8 n ' ght ’ Larry ” Isabel

It was nine o’clock and the party had

iT. d 'gw",SS> ha1 ' * do " n c “ up, “

“What matter?” Larry grinned fa-
tuoiisly, and tipped back upon his heels.

. 1 ™ g °! ng an y uptown robbers’

den; its the sjums for us. Who cares if
its Sunday night?”

Who cared indeed?

t T u h 1 Alha ™ bra was in its heyday when
Isabel and her party drew in before a
line of cars.

A blue light was shining in a dingv
hallway. Sinister, Isabel thought it, as
she follewd Du Maurier and Susie down
the staircase which gave upon a white-
washed hall.

Smoke hung like a pall upon the scene
before them, although not half of the
glistening marble-topped tables ranged
along the wall were filled.

Dick ...” Isabel felt her hand pluck-
ing at Du Maurier’s sleeve. She could
nott control it. “I don’t like this place.
Let’s go.”

Susie’s face, immaculately red and
white beneath the round brown eyes,
poked itself through a gathering haze.
“Don’t be a killjoy, Isabel. Come on.
Larry has a table.”

Slowly the room began to take shape
before her eyes, the figures about her
to assume definite forms, to attain vol-
ume.

A college youth with oiled hair and
teeth parted in the middle, orgling a
woman.

A tall, sinuous girl, gilt-haired, hold-
ing the hand of a sturdy black-haired
woman in a tweed suit and crush hat.

“That type is indigenous to the
place,” Du Maurier said, interpreting
Isabel’s thought. “Those two are eter-
nally here. And there — ” he pointed to
the girl who played the piano — “is the
character who made the Alhambra fa-
mous.”

Isabel saw that she was a rosy-faced
girl, a miraculously small, elfin creature.
“She looks like an angel from an old
Italian canvas.”

“A drug addict,” Du Maurier said.

Isabel pointed out still another group.
A tableful of dirty, intelligent-looking
men. who drank sour red wine, talked
noisily, and scribbled upon sheets of
paper with extraordinary long red pen-
cils.

“Members of a world-famous organi-
zation which deals with the occult,” Du
Maurier elucidated. “They are said to
have peculiar and rather revolting rites.
But no one has ever been able to prove
anything. Rousillon scares them off. ’

“Rousillon?”

“Yes. Probably the greatest magi-
cian in the world. He’s called ‘The
Prophet.’ That man at the head of the
table with the tangled reddish beard. A
most uncanny fellow, really.”

“You old scare-cat!” Susie accused,
in a voice of indulgent contempt. She
turned to Du Maurier, who was looking
more than usually bored, and added:
“I’d simply adore having my fortune
told. Is he expensive?”

“Expensive?” Du Maurier stared.
Then he burst out laughing. “My dear
child, vou don’t mean Rousillon? Bu-
he isn’t that kind of a fortune-teller. He
never takes money, or does it profes-
sionally.”

Susie lowered her eyes shrewdly.
“Everyone has his price.

.9k> you ^°° ’ Cecil whispered

sibilantly. he s watching you. He’s
heard every word you said.”

Isabel gasped: “Let’s go. Oh . I
know something is going to happen.”

Mademoiselle has reason.”

It was the man with the reddish beard
who spoke., The room fell silent at
once Rousillon, the soothsayer, fixed
black beady eyes upon Susie, who
squirmed.

“ You w'. 11 see, red-head,” he spat out.
the evening will bring what you expect
not.

Susie twitched, half rose, and then
dropped into place with an insolent
1 aught. “You can’t scare me, old nut,”
she said, “whoever you are. What do
you want?”

“Of you, red-head, nothing.” He waited,
waited until the smoky atmosphere had
absorbed the last echo of his words.
Then, “Mademoiselle,” he said to Isabel,*
“I would speak with you— alone.”

Du Maurier whispered: “Sit still!”
And his hand fell heavily upon Isabel’s
arm.

“I t is of no avail, Monsieur.” Rousil-
lon’s beady eyes never left Isabel’s.
“You see . . . she comes.”

With locked eyes they moved across
the room, Rousillon toward a curtained
doorway, Isabel toward Rousillon.

“One moment.” Du MaurieT barred
the Frenchman’s way. “You must not
leave this room. You understand. No
quittez pas cette chambre.”

There was a pause. A pause, while
Isabel stood dazed; while Du Maurier
and Rousillon regarded each other like
two dogs across a bone. Then, “Mon-
sieur need have no fear,” quoth Rousil-
lon the soothsayer, and drew back the
curtain on its brass rings. “He may
stand outside, if he will. I will not harm
Mademoiselle.” And, taking her by the
hand, Rousillon led Isabel to a table be-
neath a high window and, drawing the
curtain, sat down. Outside. Du Mau-
rier stood like one spellbound, glued to
the spot.

CHAPTER XIII.

A VISION

“What do you want?” Isabel looked
about the small room, dark but for a
light outside the high narrow window
which threw a green reflection on the
ceiling. ’’What did you wish to say?”

The great Rousillon shrugged. “A
word of encouragement, only a word, to
you, Mademoiselle, who have been strug-
gling through the dark. I wish only
that you believe what I say. Therefore
I ask that you give me a test.”

“My name.” Isabel lea/ned tensely
forward, gripping the cold marble edge
of the table. “What is my name?”

“Rayburn, Mademoiselle. Daughter
of that Rayburn who has done brave
deeds, but will die like his woman in the
bed. And after a fashion — by cause of
you, Mademoiselle.”

Isabel had shrunk back, her finger-
tips pressed against her throat. “It
cannot be true,” she muttered.

She could feel that Rousillon moved
nearer to her. “I will swear it, then,”
said Rousillon softly. “In the name of
the white leopard. Is that enough?”

There was no sound save the sound
made by Isabel’s deep breathing.

“Is it enough?” asked Rousillon.

“It is enough.”

“Then be brave, Mademoisell. Heed
not the trial which awaits you tonight,

Cattail tun Railroader , Montreal

December , 1926: Vol. X, No. 4

nor other trials. They will but make
you strong*. Let that thought which has
been beating its dark wings in the
depths of your mind be set free it wil*
lead to Victory.” , „

“Monsieur, I do not understand
“Are you brave, Mademoiselle '

“I . . . am not afraid.”

“Then vou shall see.” Rousillon lean-
ed forward in the half-light, and she
heard a sound, as of sand poured on the
table. “Look down, Mademoiselle, and
do not move your eyes.”

The sound of a scraping match. A
thin flame which ran toward Isabel,
along the table, following an unseen sub-
stance and igniting as it moved A sheet
of paper (mite white, and a long red

PC “Do not move your eyes, Mademoi-
selle.”

The pencil marked upon the white
paper. Strange unfamiliar figures. Fig-
ures enclosed by a circle, figures separ-
ated into four parts by the four seg-

ments of a cross.

The thin blue flames ran round about
the paper, paling as they ran. A faint
sweet odour hung upon the air. The
flames paled . . . paled . . . and were
gone. A scented quiet was everywhere.

“Are you at peace?” whispered Rou-
sillon. . ,

“I am at peace,” she said, mechan-

ically. „

“Then you may move your eyes.

She lifted them, with difficulty, and
looked about. In the darkness she could
perceive no sign of Rousillon.

“Monsieur,” she wihspered once.

There was no answere.

Now she saw that the green reflec-
tion had gone from the ceiling, and
there was nothing left in the room but a
dim opalescent glow, which changed dis-
tances oddly, in that now the room
seemed larger, and now smaller, than
before. A vague sleepiness, as of some
potent and not unpleasant drug, came
over Isabel, who looked out upon the
interchanging gloom and shimmer ac-
customing her eyes to it. And as Isabel
watched a figure seemed to take form,
and the figure was all white, surround-
ed by a sort of incandescence, and it
moved toward Isabel without seeming
to walk, as the figures in dreams some-
times move. The eyes were deep, like the
eyes of Du Maurier, and the curve of the
lips resembled her own. And suddenly
Isabel’s heart filled with a torment of
yearning, as though this white and si-
lent form was something close and dear
to her, and though she knew it was not
flesh and blood, it seemed as though her
touch might make it so.

But as she put out her hand to touch
the figure it receded, beckoned.

Wherefore Isabel, still in the manner
of a dream, which gives often a double
personality, began to follow the figure,
although she did not move from her
place. And she followed it for a long
way, seeing it always ahead of her like
a spot of moonlight, and farther and
farther she followed it, without coming
to the walls of the room.

Then fell upon her ears a sound as of
running water; dampness was all about
her, and a thick winding darkness, and
the white figure paused for a moment
before, with a lingering slowness, it van-
ished into the earth.

When Isabel came to the place where
the white form had vanished she saw,
very far away, clear shining water. But
of the white figure there was no sign.

Now the darkness had lifted still more,
and Isabel saw that she was at the foot
of a curious steep hill.

Then it seemed that a small voice—
and where it came from, Isabel could
not guess — directed her to the hill.

So Isabel set off around the base of
the hill, hunting for a way that would
be safe. There was but one safe place,
and this was barred by a high gate. She
put out her hand in the heavy stillness,
and touched the lock.

Now, as Isabel touched the lock, a
strange thing came to pass. There was
a tolling and chiming of many bells. And
this ringing seemed to come from with-
in, not from without, until Isabel was
filled up with a magnitude of sound, so
that her knees beneath her grew weak
and it was as though she swooned. . . .

She woke to see the curtain drawn
back on its rings of brass and to hear
her own voice saying: “I do not under-
stand. I do not understand.”

There was no sign of Rousillon, but
Du Maurier was bending over her, and
Susie Burnham was plucking at her arm
while Susie’s teeth chattered with fright.

“I’m quite all right,’’ Isabel assured
them.

“Then for God’s sake come quickly!”
cried Susie. “My father just got here,
and if he finds me he’ll kill me. Thank
Heaven, there’s another door to this
room ! ”

Before she had a chance to reply,
Isabel found herself pushed into a pas-
sage and propelled up a flight of stairs.

On the sidewalk in front of the Al-
hambra the little party gathered itself
together for another spring into the
city’s Sunday night life. Of course, Isa-
bel was assailed by a storm of questions,
but she answered non-committally.
Where to go next was a matter of
greater, far greater moment.

“I know a nice little apartment up on
Madison Avenue,” suggested Larry San-
ville, who had somehow gotten the idea
that his first move was a tremendous
success, “where we can have a quiet
game of roulette.”

“Private rooms?” inquired Susie
sharply, with an apprehensive look be-
hind her.

“Certainly. With all the commodi-
ties. includin’ champagne.”

“Let’s go.”

Finally the whole party was safely en
route for Madison Avenue.

It was characteristic that in the gen-
eral excitement not one of them noticed
that a long grey touring-car detached
itself from the line in front of the Al-
hambra, and followed at a safe distance,
the taxi containing Susie, Isabel and Du
Maurier.

CHAPTER XIV.

THE TURN OF THE WHEEL

“That’s nothing,” protested Susie,
gathering in a pile of five-dollar chins.
“Just wait until I really get -started.”

The party had arrived without mis-
hap — and without catching sight of the
long grey touring-car which followed
them — at a well-known gambling-house
on Madison Avenue. Larry Sanviile had
given the password; in practically no
time they were installed in a sublime
version of the cabinet parfciculier; the
green cover was swept from a wheel
and board; Susie, in the face of an ad-
miring audience, starred number seven-
teen with a hundred dollars’ worth of
chips — and won.

“I’ll risk my last hundred thousand,”
grinned Sanviile. “You coinin’ in, blue-

eyes?”

Isabel shook her head. The emotions
of her experience with Rousillon had
worn off, and had been succeeded by a
spiritual serenity which Isabel herself
could scarcely comprehend.

I’m the girl who put the ‘roule’ in
‘roulette/ ” A glittering hand swept
the chips from a low number. “I al-
ways win.”

Susie again. And what she said—
what she said was true. Her luck was
phenomenal. Already she was half hid-
den by neat stacks of red and white and
blue chips. She played, moreover, like
one in whom the gaming spirit has been
born and bred: with a patient and im-
placable certainty. Her face was emo-
tionless as the face of a clock; only her
eyes gleamed out across the table:
shrewd, suspicious, alert. Her eyes
smiled, and echoed the words of her
mouth: “I always win.”

“I always lose,” said Isabel.

“Same here.” And Larry Sanviile
stuck his hands into empty pockets.

“Place your bets, ladies and gentle-
men,” said the man behind the wheel.

Rattle of chips. Isabel’s eyes left
the face of Du Maurier as she watched
Susie starring eight; starring seven-
teen; covering the red.

“The game is closed, ladies and gen-
tlemen. Nothing more goes.”

The chatter ceased. There was a
whirring sound.

Enormous tension. And then voices.

At the first sound Isabel knew instinc-
tively what had happened. Susie’s father
had come.

Click. Click-click went the whirling
ivory.

In the silence every sound was deaf-
ening. One could hear the voices, rising
louder, louder, like rising winds.

A polite menial with a placating tone.
Soft wind. But Susie’s father screamed
like a cyclone; his voice came rasping
through the thick walls, shaming, ines-
capable. . . “Hand me over the keys,
d’ye hear? I’m going through till I
find what I’m after.”

For the first time that evening Susie
raised her eyes from the table. The
chips scattered and rolled everywhere,
but Susie did not notice. Her eyes
sought the face of Du Maurier, but it
was shut against her. Then they turned
to Isabel, and there they found pity.

“Isabel,” she cried wildly, “I don’t
know what he’ll do if he finds me. Help
me, Isabel.”

What was there for her to do?

“Go in and stop him! Talk to him for
a moment. Tell him anything until he
gets quieter.”

Something pulled the door from the
other side.

Isabel slipped quickly through and
closed it behind her, hearing a voice call
from the other side: “Number eight
wins . . . number eight.”

“Who are you, heh?”

Wiih a shock that snatched her back
to reality, Isabel saw a little black man
with a nose and chin that almost met.

Susie’s father, that was Susie’s father.

The voice alone should have told her,
she realized, what Isaac Burnham was.
But it had not. Nothing had told her.
A. nd now, quite unexpectedly, she her-
self had come upon the truth. This was
Susie’s father! This little man.

“Who are you? What do you want?

She wanted to say: “I came to learn
the truth about my rival. I came to

December, 1926: Vol. X., IVq. 4

Canadian Railroader , Montreal

learn what Susie really is.” But grati-
tude for the great revelation guided
Isabel’s tongue. “I am Susie’s friend,”
she faltered, and managed to utter her
name.

•‘Waddo you want? Where’s Suey? I
want to take her out of this den.”

“Susie was afraid. She asked me to
come and talk to you first. It’s really
not as bad as it looks, you know. She’s
with nice people.”

“Nice people, hell;” Isaac showed his
teeth like a kicked mongrel. “Nice peo-
ple don’t bring good little girls to joints
like this.” His eyes met Isabel’s, soft-
ened unwillingly. “You look like a de-
cent sort of kid, and like you had a grain
of sense in your bean, too. Waddo you
let my baby come here for, if you’re her
friend? Waddare you doing here your-
self, heh? You got a poppa?”

Isabel nodded.

“Waddo you think he’d say if he
seen you here?”

Isabel visualized Adrian. “I — I don’r

think he’d mind,” she said. “You see

he trusts me!”

“Well, I know women!” Isaac Burn-
ham buried his hands in two deep poc-
kets, and spread his legs apart. “I
don’t trust the best of ’em.”

“Things like this aren’t wrong unless
you think they are, Mr. Burnham. We
just went out for a lark . . . sight-seeing.
None of us meant to do anything wrong.
So please don’t be too hard on Susie.
I’d rather you blamed us.”

“I do blame you — all of you!” cried
Isaac, savagely. “I give up my girl and
let her ma bring her to New York so’s
she could meet decenter people, and all
she meets is a bunch of lounge lizards
that’s after her jack and takes her to
places like this.” Then suddenly, “Oh.

I guess you ain’t altogether to blame,
kiddy,” he said. “Not if you got a poppa
that don’t care. And I guess you’re a
plucky girl, or you wouldn’t of come in
when Suey was scared. . . .” Isaac Burn-
ham removed his hands from his pockets
and flung them out in a gesture of ra-
cial philosophy. “Tell her to come
along,” he said. “Tell her the old man
ain’t sore, just turribel hurt and sorry,
see? I want to take her out of all this.
Tell her that, will you, heh?”

“Thank you,” said Isabel, and added,
to the complete mystification of Isaac
Burnham: “You have told me something
tonight . . . done me a favor which I
can never repay. But if I ever have a
chance to do you a good turn, I solemn-
ly swear to take it.” . . .

The wheel was spinning again when
she entered the room.

“Where is Susie?”

Cecil replied.

“She and Du Maurier toddled off just
after you went in to her father.”

. Oddly enough, the sudden tears which
stung Isabel’s eyes were for Isaac rather

than herself.

“Cecil,” she whispered.

And Cecil was at her side.

But Isaac went as he had come, in a
long grey touring-car, alone.

* * *

The affair of Rousillon, upon which
Isabel the woman came to look with the
awe and wonder accorded to such things.
Played curious tricks with the mind of
Isabel the girl.

When, at breakfast, Cecil asked her
to describe what she had seen, she could
only start, rub her hand across her eyes,
and vaguely shake her head.

They discussed the scene between
Isaac and Isabel. Cecil — consumed with

curiosity concerning that man whose af-
fairs were so closely linked with thoso

w«»M fc° Urt Hutchlnson & Vincennes—
' V ®“ W h av e given much to share her se-

Cvril W R-M.p ISab H ' Sh «. resolved to ask
7 $ ril Harcourt s permission to retract
the promise of silence.

Cecil rose briskly, eyes fixed on her
wrist-watch. ‘I shall have to trot-tro^
to market, she said, thinking of the re-
quest she would make of Mr. Harcourt.
A nd tonight I’ll have news for you ”

Before noon Mr*. Fallon, the grey-
haired elderly scrub-woman, arrived on
her weekly visit.

« r ‘ Po] ish,’ ” Isabel informed her father,
rhymes with ‘demolish,’ I’ll let her do
coth in her own way. The place will get
a thorough cleaning.”

Nonsense! said Adrian, who was in
an argumentative mood, “scrubwomen
never clean. Besides, who cares? I
hate super-cleanliness— it’s so ignorant
Stiff and priggish— like Cecil.”

“You seem vexed with Cecil, pupaw?”

“Oh, the deuce take her, and her lec-
tures at the same time. I only hop"
there’s an extra platform in heaven.”

Isabel protested.

“It’s not super righteousness with
Cecil. I think it’s only because she can’t
put herself in other people’s places.
Can’t feel things in spirit that she has
never felt in flesh. That’s why she
can’t understand the way I feel— about
Dick. Because she’s never been in love.’
Isabel stole a glance at her father, and
saw that he had relaxed into a listening
pose. “I don’t believe she’s ever care 1
for anyone except you, and me. And
Cyril Harcourt, of course.”

“Not of course.”

“What ?”

“I said not of course. Why should
Cyril Harcourt be of course?”

* “Really, pupaw, one might think you
were implying that Cecil was in love
with C. H.”

“You flatter me.” Adrian drummed
on the counter-pane with one mocking
fingertip. “I lack the delicacy of im-
plication. I state that Cecil is in love
with Cyril Harcourt.”

“Then you state nonsense.” She
added rudely: “Cecil tells me everything.
She wouldn’t - come to you, and not to
me.”

“She hasn’t come to me,” Adrian
amended, with rare patience. 'I’m Sher-
lock Holmes, Junior. I deduced it. Now
you’d better go.”

Isabel apologized. She had been too
quick.

Adrian snickered, but said indifferent-
ly: “On your way out, stop and see the
janitress. My bell has been out of order
for a fortnight.” And so busy was Isabel
speculating about her father that she
quite forgot to see the janitress on her
way out.

The fine weather kept. The sun rode
high in the heavens, and a crisp wind
blew out of the west. Isabel, walking
up Fifth Avenue, drew buoyancy and
vigor into her lungs with the fresh air
and, watching the people she passed on
her way, made idle speculations as to
their lives and ambitions.

Her thoughts turned to Mrs. French

Mrs. French, that woman of vast and
colorful experience! Like one in a dream,
Isabel hailed a passing cab, jumped in,
and gave the driver an address on West
Fifty-ninth Street. Then, with a sigh,
she sank back into the cushioned seat,
and delivered herself to fate.

CHAPTER XV.

• x^ U ? le Pl ? rn ^ am turned a tear-wet face
into her pillow, and wailed aloud in her
remorse: “Oh, why did I do it? Whv
did I do it? Isabel will never forgive
me, „ and she’s the only person 1 care

ouunuuu ciose to the bed.

“You’ve put your foot in it this time,
my girl, said Olive, and held out a tele-
£ ram to her daughter.

Susie dried her eyes with a lace-edged
handkerchief and, pushing the massed
hair from her forehead, began to read.

Slowly the bright color left her
cheeks.

Oh, how horrid!” she finally cried,
and crumpled up the yellow sheet. “How
beastly unfair to take away my present
because I tried to get one little evening’s
amusement! ...” and flinging herself
across the bed, she resumed her weeping
with redoubled violence.

All during the morning the sound of
weeping came from Susie’s room, and at
lunch-time Olive went across the street
to Sherry’s, where she put in a call to
Philadelphia. Isaac had just returned
to his office, and was in one of his more
reasonable moods. After ten minutes
Olive hung up the receiver and returned
impassively to the apartment.

“I had another telegram,” she lied,
caressing Susie’s hair. “Your father
has reconsidered. He says you shall
have the bracelet if you behave in the
future. And also,” Olive added, grudg-
ingly enough, “he said to ‘excuse your-
self’ to the little girl he saw* last

ni&ht that aside from us she’s

the best friend you’ve got.”

“Oh, I know it, mother, I know it!”
cried Susie, smiling through her tears.
“I’m going right out and send her the
biggest bunch of orchids in New York.”

Tightening her lips, Olive turned

away.

“You never send me orchids,” she said,
in her old sarcastic manner. “But then
I’m only your mother . . .”

* * *

Of her two daughters born to that
bigoted New England landowner Stack-
pole Thackeray, Veronica, the younger
and prettier, was the first to marry.
At fifteen she had flirted childishly with
Cyril Harcourt, and announced her in-
tention of becoming his wife — “when
they grew up.” But a year later Geof-
frey Warren French, who had made and
gambled away and remade several good-
sized fortunes, came to the Connecticut
farm to see old Stackpole on business.
When he returned to New York he took
Veronica with him.

Veronica’s enemies said that she had
married an old reprobate for his money.
Veronica’s sister thought she had been
swept off her feet in admiration of the
great Geoffrey French, who had been the
lover of kings’ mistresses. But Cyril
Harcourt knew only that the little girl
whom he had loved was tied to a drunk-
ard and a swine. They all agreed, with
varying degrees of emotion, that it would
end* badly. And they were right.

However, Geoffrey French’s sudden
death put an end to the matter.

When a decent interval had elapsed,
and the affairs of Geoffrey— who had
left every penny to his dear wife — were
settled, Cyril Harcourt again asked Ver-
onica for her hand. That it was slight-

Canadian Railroader , Montreal

December, 1926: Vol. X, No. 4

ly soiled he did not choose to notice. He
said it meant nothing to him.

“But it means a great deal to me, Cy-
ril, she asserted. “I've formed bad
habits, and, what is worse, I like them.”
So his pleadings were vain. “I’m too
fond of you to ruin your life, Cyril,” she
told him. “There is no hope. I will
never change.”

“Nor will I,” Cyril Harcourt prom-
ised. “I will always be waiting.”

And for twenty years he had kept his
word, while Veronica grew wiser by far
and no less lovely. Cyril was stubborn,
too.

This was the woman to whom Isabel
went for counsel.

Mrs. French received her niece in the
Directoire drawing room of the little
apartment where she lived with her
maid and her Pekinese. It was here,
with her back to the light, that Isabel
sat and talked.

Mrs. French listened quietly, stroking
the large silken ears of Ming, who slum-
bered on her knees.

At length Isabel had come to the end.
Mrs. French smiled slowly.

“My dear child,” she murmured, with
her eyes bent upon Ming’s glossy head,
“I see that you have made the fatal
error of falling in love with Richard
. . . Du Maurier.

“You couldn’t have chosen a worse
person to fall in love with. You can’t
use the same sort of coquetry with Dick
that would be effective with other men.
It’s all old stuff to him.”

“I will be as patient as ... as Gris-
elda, I’ll do anything.”

“You’ll probably have to.”

Slowly the color came back into
Isabel’s face. “Do you ... do you
think I ought to take the aggressive
part?” she asked abruptly. “Do you
think woman is really the huntress?”

Mrs. French gave an almost malicious
jerk to the ears of Ming who jumped off
her lap and trotted, coughing crossly, to
a distant corner of the room. “You
aren’t such an innocent babe after all!”
she exclaimed. “Or else . . . who put
that idea into your head?”

“Pupaw.”

“Mm. . . . Well ... I thought per-
haps it was Du Maurier himself. It
would be so like him to give you a hint.”
She was silent for a moment. “I think
the woman is the huntress in spirit,” she
said presently. “But, to put the matter
baldly, her method must be to trap,
rather than to spear openly. The man
must have the illusion that it is he who
takes the initiative. Tell me more about
this girl . . . this Susie person.”

“She isn’t malicious, or deliberate,”
Isabel tried to explain. “And she’s so
spoiled and helpless that it makes me
feel guilty to do anything that would
hurt her.”

“You’ve said enough. I know the girl
already. Now then, hark to my words
of wisdom.”

“I’m harking.”

“And don’t reproach me afterwards
for being a nasty, cynical old woman.”

“I shan’t.”

“Now, first of all, a question. Do you
know any man with lots of money, and
no prejudices against her type? He
would have to be reasonably vulgar, of
course, but that wouldn’t matter if he
were susceptible — and attractive.”

“Well, I don’t know where ....
unless” — and Isabel chuckled aloud —
“you would like me to cultivate Mr.
Wadsworth Silverstein.”

Mrs. French wrinkled up her nose.
“Who in the deuce is Wadsworth Silver-
stein?”

Isabel explained.

“That’s your man, my dear. If he
lacks a bit of veneer, It’s up to you to
polish him off before you introduce him
to Miss — what is her name?”

“Burnham.”

“Burnham ? Didn’t you say her father
was a broker?”

“Yes, but you wouldn’t know him.
Firstly, he’s from Philadelphia, and,
secondly, he’s — well, the name of his
firm is Burnham & Levy.”

There was silence for a moment.

“To get back to our subject,” said
Mrs. French. And she began to outline
a plan, which after considerable argu-
ment, impressed Isabel with its possi-
bilities. Veronica French slipped an
arm about Isabel’s shoulders. “Buck
up, old girl,” she advised. “Nothing is
ever worth the trouble we go to to get
it, but the effort is what makes life
amusing.”

In the outer hallway Isabel paused.

“There was a quotation you once
showed me,” she remarked, “and I’d like
to know where it comes from.” She
repeated a line.

Mrs. French laughed for no calculable
reason. “Tell the elevator to wait a
moment,” and she went back into the
apartment. When she returned she held
a book in her hand. “Here you are,”
she said. It’s Lenox Madden’s latest
book, ‘The Younger Generation.’ Read
it carefully. And be sure,” she admon-
ished, “to let me know what it tells you.”

The elevator clanked to a stop.

“Good-bye,” said Isabel, “and thanks
again.”

“You are quite welcome,” her aunt re-
plied graciously.

When the elevator had gone she closed
the door quietly. “Hendrix,” she called
to her maid, “get Mr. Harcourt’s secre-
tary on the telephone. I wish to speak
to her.”

Cecil Acts Detective.

Cecil slammed the telephone on to the
desk with unrepressed fury. “Oh, that
aunt of mine!” she brought out between
clenched teeth. “Oh, the criminal dumb-
ness of some people!”

“What’s the row?” asked C. H.
“Something about this Burnham and
Levy business?”

“Yes, the man who followed us to the
gambling-place was the Burnham in
question.” And Isabel had lunch with
Veronica, and let out that fact. And
the darned woman seems to think that
because I know his daughter I can go up
to the man and say, ‘Here, you crook,
hand me the ten thousand dollars that
you stole from my aunt,’ and get the
money, too! She’s such an aggravating
person!”

“Oh, Veronica doesn’t mean it,” Mr.
Harcourt soothed, and Cecil writhed in-
wardly at the tenderness in his voice.
We are tied, Cecil. We haven’t a leg
to stand on as long as we are forbidden
to act officially.”

‘ But couldn’t you go over to Phila-
delphia . . . see the district attorney?
They’ll be bound to trip themselves up
sooner or later.”

“Unless someone warns them, and they
pull the great trump of all those fel-
lows: transfer their assets into their
wives’ names, and file a petition in bank-
ruptcy.” Mr. Harcourt smiled, shook
his head.

Cecil cut in impatiently. “I could go
to Philadelphia myself, if you trusted me
enough. But not as Cyril Harcourt’s
secretary, you understand. Simply as
the niece of the injured Mrs. French,
someone personally interested. Oh, C.
H.,” Cecil begged, “give me a chance.’’

A warm look of gratitude was her
reward.

“You shall have your chance, my
dear.”

That was how it happened that later
in the day, when Isabel asked Cecil what
her bit of news was, Cecil replied coldly:
“Nothing — except that I’m leaving at

once for Philadelphia ”

* * *

Meanwhile, Isabel was spared the
humiliation of calling up Wadsworth
Silverstein.

She did some shopping up town, and
when she returned to the studio she
found him there.

“I’m sure glad you arrived,” he de-
clared. Without further preliminaries
he came to the point of his visit. “Look
here,” he asked. “Have you seen this
fellow Potter in the last few days?”

“No. We expected him to join a party
last night, but he didn’t turn up. Wasn’t
he at work today?”

“He was not. And not on Satur-
day either. On Friday he blew in at
about eleven forty-five, all lit up like
the Metropolitan tower. I told Mm to
go home, and I’d stop around and have
words with him after business hours.
Well, when 1 got to his place, the land-
lady said he hadn’t been around there
lor a couple of days.”

“What do you suppose has happened
to him?”

Silverstein outlined his impressions,
which were neither alarming to Isabel
nor complimentary to Potter.

“I’m sorry it all happened,” Isabel
said.

Silverstein reached for his hat and
coat. “Don’t let it worry you,” he ad-
vised. “Hope I haven’t troubled you,
but I thought you ought to know.”

Isabel gathered up what courage she
had. “Surely,” she said, with a smile
that startled Silverstein by its frank
cordiality, “you won’t leave me without
having a cup of tea. I should be so . .
disappointed.”

Like most disagreeable situations, this
one was less alarming in fact than in
fancy. Silverstein did not drink out of
his saucer. On the contrary, his man-
ners were charming, and when the first
strained half hour was over, Isabel
found, to her astonishment, that she was
genuinely interested in this novel speci-
men of the genius Homo.

She intended to learn what she could
about Silverstein, in order to forward
the execution of her Aunt Veronica’s
plan.

Two knocks at the door resounded in
swift succession, the first heralding the
arrival of the orchids which Susie had
promised earlier in the day, and which
Isabel , with a rather mocking smile,
pinned to her dress; the second announ-
cing the unexpected arrival of Du
Maurier and his cousin, Andrea Dartie.

Du Maurier had spent a restless
night. He sensed that the part he had
played at the gambling house was not a
gallant one. Moreover, he had been dis-
appointed in his expectations of Susie.
They had arrived at the darkened apart-
ment on Park Avenue at about the time
Isabel was emerging from her illumin-
ating encounter with Isaac Burnham.

December, 1926: Vol. X., No. 4

Canadian Railroader, Montreal

Susie had not turned on the lights — she
did not, she said, wish to wake up her
mother. In the greenish sombreness
her body had yielded itself to Du
Maurier’s embrace, inviting, conscious
of its allure. He remembered her hair,
filled with a confused odor of tobacco
smoke mingled with expensive perfume
an odor that revolted his fastidious-
ness and awakened his passion. He had
kissed her; she had confessed that she
loved him, and he had wanted her little
rounded body, wanted it sharply and
poignantly for himself.

At home, in the still little room where
Achilles rubbed against the knees of a
tired and disgusted master, Du Maurier’s
thoughts had turned with something of
regret, something of shame, to Isabel.
And that afternoon, when he came to
the studio, it was with an idea, vague,
but none the less existent, of making
amends. . . .

The sight of Silverstein pulled him
up as a check-rein pulls up a fractious
pony.

There was an awkward and dismal
silence which even the exciting morsel
of news about Stockbridge Potter failed
to dissipate.

“He’ll reappear before tomorrow
night,” Du Maurier predicted, his eyes
flitting to the vast bouquet at Isabel’s
waist. “He won’t miss Susie’s dinner.
By the way, there was a message from
Susie — you were to bring your own
man. She wants to have a few ‘stags’.”

Isabel felt her throat contracting —
wondered vaguely whether she could
force words upward and out through
dry lips. Desire and diplomacy wrest-
led for supremacy.

“Why, how nice, Dick!” Isabel said.
“Will you stop and pick me up on your
way?”

Pause.

“So sorry,” said Du Maurier, “but I
promised Susie to go up early and help
arrange the flowers.”

White sparks of humiliation crossing
the black cloud of despair. Then
strength came back to Isabel in a flash.

With a shrug of rather humorous dis-
appointment. “Spurned!” she laughed.
She turned to Silverstein, beaming, al-
most pastorally shy. “I’d ask you,” she
said in a voice of nectar and ambrosia,
“only you don’t know the girl, and I
couldn’t bear another refusal.”

“You wouldn’t get one.”

“No? Oh, would you really go? But
how awfully sweet of you!” Isabel ex-
claimed, laying her hand on Silverstein’s
arm. “You put me into your debt — but
I shall promise to pay it off giving you
an excellent time.”

“Judas ...” thought Richard Du
Maurier, ^ seized by a complete revul-
sion. “If my sainted mother could see
the people I’m getting in with, she’d turn
in her grave. . . .”

Andrea Dartie, wise and self-posses-
sed, slipped her arm through his. It’s
getting rather late. Dick has offered to
convey me to my palatial residence on
the other side of the square, so I think
we’ll be off.”

Outside, crossing the bare space of
grassless gardens and leafless trees
which were the winter garments of
Washington Square, Andrea said:

“Dick, you are a cad. If any man
treated me as you have treated that

child who adores you ”

a 7 0U,d know well enough what to do,
Andrea. You are what is commonly
known as a ‘wise bird.’ ”

“Weil there are limits to selfishness,
my friend.”

^ you have discovered one of
them V

, She laughed upward, into his face.

P as t master of the pleasant
art of insult, Mr. Madden.”

Du Maurier’s hand closed rudely over
her wrist. “Not Mr. Madden, if you
please.”

Mademoiselle Griselda does not know
who you are, then?” And she added, as
he made a sharp negative gesture. “She
has one of your novels in a conspicuous
place on her table. ‘The Younger Gen-
eration’— your latest, is it not?”

“My latest?” Du Maurier released his
cousin’s wrist, laughing softly down at
her. “No. Not my latest. That is not
quite complete, as yet. But when it is,
Miss Rayburn will not have it on her
table, for all that it is her own story,
and” — the ring of triumph vibrated in
his throat — “and my best, Andrea my
very best.”

CHAPTER XVII.

THE FIRST STEP.

Du Maurier waited for Susie’s party
with the intention of passing final judg-
ment upon his hostess and upon Isabel.

Before setting out he gave himself half
an hour to review the past and prepare
for the future. At one time, he could
now confess, he had been very much in
love with Isabel. When the desire to
propose formally to Isabel had become
too urgent, he had taken the precaution
of — spending two weeks away from her
at Hot Springs, and on the day of his
return he had met Susie — Susie with her
frank desire to please, her play upon
ready sympathies, her blinding bonfire
of hair.

Arriving early, perhaps for the first
time in his career of dinners, Du Maurier
found Susie waiting in the drawing-
room. A sheath of green-blue metal
cloth enclosed her plump body, and her
fingers encircled a fan of peacock feath-
ers with a golden handle. At sight of
her, Du Maurier’s resolute detachment
was forgotten. He caught her in his
arms, drawing her up against the stiff
shirt-front, which made a hissing sound
against her skin.

“Oh, don’t, Du Maurier — my dress will
be ruined!”

Upon the strident irritation of her
rebuff, his ardor cooled as swiftly as a
snuffed candle.

Released, Susie purred at him: “Aren’t
cross, are you, darling?”

Barbara opportunately announced Mr.
and Mrs. Cheever, Larry Sanville, and
his sister, Mrs. Dalgren. Du Maurier
could not but smile at the crumbling of
social barriers which permitted conserva-
tives like the Dalgrens and the Cheevers,
representing the most solid and most
sober element of New York’s baby aris-
tocracy, to take up a rank outsider like
Susie.

Barbara ushered in Mr. Wowse, fol-
lowed by a round of cocktails. Barbara
ushered in Miss Ruthie Vane and her
four admirers, then a second round ot
cocktails. Du Maurier, mentally noting
the impropriety of having odd men to
dinner, walked to the window and look-
ed downward fourteen stories to the
lamplit street below. Looked until the
visions that painted themselves upon the
darkness became unbearable. In en
turned away, cursing the crumbling so-
cial barriers that allowed a girl like

Isabel to trust herself alone in a taxi
with a manufacturer of superior suits.

He had lighted a dozen cigarettes and
thrown them unsmoked into the fire-
place when Isabel and her escort finally
strolled in. For some reason that he
would not analyze, Isabel’s calm com-
placency annoyed and angered him. He
was relieved when he found himself seat-
ed next to Susie, with Isabel and Silver-
stein at the other end of the table.

Isabel, already disappointed by the
same arrangement of couples which had
afforded Du Maurier relief, found her
plans impeded by the very person she
had chosen for their advancement. Sil-
verstein, wary of making a wrong move,
maintained an absolute silence, nor did
he by word or action capture the smallest
particle of the hostess’ notice. Susie
occupied herself with Du Maurier and
with champagne. Silverstein watched
her as though fascinated.

The dinner dragged on — with dancing
to the tune of the player-piano after
every course — and it was almost eleven
when Susie, flushed and slightly tipsy,
pushed back her chair and surveyed the
table, littered with remnants of fire-
crackers, favors, and food.

“Awful!” wailed Susie, who had a way
of speaking of herself in the third person,
after the third , drink. Whereupon she
seized a corner of the cloth, gave a
mighty tug, and went down in a clatter
of dishes and applause.

Du Maurier laughed with the rest and
helped excavate Susie from under the
debris, where she lay on her stomach
with her face in a dish of ice cream.

“Look at your dress, now,” he whis-
pered, bending over her.

By way of answer Susie put her arms
about his neck, swung clear of the floor,
and pecked him on the chin, leaving a
smudge of chocolate sauce.

Silverstein alone did not share in the
general mirth, but leaned against the
piano watching Susie with an expression
which Isabel could not fathom.

“What’s the matter?” she finally in-
quired, sotto voce. “Don’t you like our
hostess ?”

“Like lier?” Silverstein turned to
Isabel, and she saw that his eyes, wells
that they were of deep and sensuous
emotion, had become widely dilated.
“Like her?” Silverstein reiterated.
“Girlie, I’m suffering from the psycho-
analysts call love at first sight.”

“Then why on earth don’t you go and
talk to her?”

Silverstein pursed up his lips. “Be-
cause I’m waiting for my opportunity.”

At this moment Susie was heard to
say: “We’ll have to call a flock of taxis.
Mother has the car.”

Silverstein’s opportunity had come.

“Say,” he interrupted in his agreeable
drawl, “as the novels put it — my Rolls-
Royce waits below. It’s only a little
limousine, but I guess a few of us can
pile in.”

It could not be said that Susie ran to
Silverstein’s side. On the contrary, she
walked; slowly, with a rolling and digni-
fied gait. And, “Gee,” she inquired
genially, as she took Silverstein’s arm,
“where have you been all my life, any-

“Cyr’l,” said Mrs. French, “I believe
you are the only man in Montmartre
with tails on. You are so adorably
old-fashioned, Cyr’l, so comme^ il faut.
People are so like their clothes.

Canadian Railroader , Montreal

December, 1926: Vol. X.. No 4

“In which case, wearing tails, I
should be diabolic, which unfortunately
I am not. You will have to find a better
example.”

“Well, there’s Cecil with her tailored
suit, and Richard Du Maurier who al-
ways wears an opera cloak.”

“Oh . . . the chap that’s been break-
ing little Isabel’s heart? I don’t know
him.”

“Indeed, Cyr’l, you do.” Mrs. French
glanced quickly about the crowded res-
taurant. “You rurely haven’t forgotten
Coui tney Madden’s clever son?”

“But 1 thought Lenox Madden was
writing novels.”

“So he is,” said Mrs. French. “And
Richard Du Maurier collects the material
for them.” Mr. Harcourt started to ask
another question, but she shook her head.
“Not another word — look ”

Following the direction of her glance,
Mr. Harcourt saw that a party was pre-
paring to occupy a ringside table.

“You see,” concluded Mrs. French,
“we speak of the devil — and lo — he ap-
pears.”

There was silence, while the strains
of an exciting rhythm throbbed about
them. Then :

“Do go out and call up your house,
Cyr’l,” begged Mrs. French. “I’m long-
ing to know whether Cecil’s telegram has
come.”

Mr. Harcourt rose, and Mrs. French
beckoned to Isabel, who left the party
and came to her. She found Isabel un-
communicative as to the success of their
plan.

“At least,” said Mrs. French, “you can
tell me how Dick is taking it.”

“He isn’t taking it,” replied Isabel.
“He’s leaving it alone.”

“He’s jealous.”

“I don't think so,” Isabel added.

Isabel returned to her party.

“Did you get your wire?” Mrs. French
inquired as Mr. Harcourt seated himself
beside her.

“I did indeed. Cecil has seen the dis-
trict attorney, and it appears that other
reports supplement ours. She says an
investigation will be started at once. If
we get our way in this, as we probably
will, the credit is hers.”

The music stopped. There was a sound
of clapping and, in the brief siienee that
followed, a burst of shrill laughter.

“That young woman seems happy,”
Mr. Harcourt observed.

Mrs. French looked in the direction
from which the sound had come. Susie
was there, swaying in the arms of Rich-
ard Du Maurier, and caressing his
shoulder with a hand that glittered with
diamonds.

“Yes,” said Mrs. French, slowly un-
folding her fan. “She is happy tonight,
poor child. But tomorrow — alas, Cyr’l,
why must there always be a tomorrow?”

, CHAPTER XVIII.

AN OVERHEARD CONVERSATION

At nine o’clock the next morning Isa-
bel was on the job, but after unswathing
the sketch, she realized that she was in
no humor to work.

Five minutes later the key turned in
the lock, and Cecil entered, looking tired
and grimy. When Anastasie had taken
the heavy pigskin bag into the bedroom
Lo be unpacked, Cecil went to her father’s
apartment and looked in.

After a restless night, Adrian was
even more disagreeable than usual, but
added to his ill temper there was a lassi-
tude altogether new, a more than ordin-
ary desire to be left to his own devices.
So, when Cecil looked in, she saw him
lying back on the pillows, his eyes closed,
and his face as nearly in repose as it
ever was.

“Adrian,” she whispered.

There was no answer.

On tiptoe Cecil returned to the studio,
went to the telephone, and said to the
operator: “Give me Rector ten thou-
sand.” After receiving two wrong num-
bers and being told that her party d.d
not answer, she was connected with the
offices of Harcourt, Hutchinson and Vin-
cennes.

“Our Philadelphia friends,” she told
the senior partner, “will be arrested for
bucketing before the week is up.” There
was a silence, then “No,” said Cecil, “I’ve
told nobody. Certainly not Isabel. She’s
very communicatinve these days; she
might be tempted to warn Miss Susie
Burnham of her father’s situation, in
which case . . . yes . . . All right, I’ll
be there within the hour.” And she
hung up the receiver.

Before leaving she took the precaution
of looking at Adrian again. He still lay
motionless, but a more minute inspection
would have revealed that the glass at
his side, full at Cecil’s first visit, was
now more than half empty. And was
gone wnen Isabel came back.

Without bothering to take off her
coat, Isabel hurried in to Adrian. He
was sitting up.

“Has Cecil come in?” she asked.

“Yes, and gone out again ”

“Did she have any news about her
trip?”

“None — for me.” Adrian showed no
disposition to say more.

“For whom, then?”

“Her . . . employer. But then, he is
the recipient of confidences not intended
for the ears of ... of the more im-
mediate family, one might say.”

“What do you mean, pupaw? You’re
so tantalizing with your evasions. What
did she say? Anything that I ought to
know?”

“Certainly not. Certainly not. She
was most particular about keeping it
from you. In fact, she said she expect-
ed you would run right off and tell the
very people who ought not to know it.
I mustn’t tell you any more.” Adrian
leered beatifically. “It wouldn’t be
honorable.”

“Pupaw,” Isabel cried, in a voice that
trembled in spite of her,” “are you, or
are you not, going to tell me the truth?”

“I believe I am. And I’ll tell you why
my pigeon. Because I believe it will be
useful in the consummation of your own
little love affair.”

And, in proof of his statement, Adrian
repeated Cecil’s conversation with Mr.
Harcourt, unchanged except for certain
minor embellishments which are the
reward of every raconteur.”

“Do you mean to say that Cecil be-
lieved I would warn them?” Isabel was
stupefied. “It’s malicious!” Her voice
trembled. “I’ll find out.” She
wailed savagely. “I’ll make it my busi-
ness to find out. And if it’s true, I’ll do
just what she feared. I’ll pay my debt
of gratitude to Isaac Burnham, and pun-
ish Cecil too. I will, I will!”

“That’s right,” commented Adrian
placidly. “Kill two birds with one
stone.” But Isabel was already out of
earshot, frantically ringing a plaza
number, which Adrian recognized as that
of Mrs. French. Evidently Isabel was
not long in getting the desired corrobor-
ation. For hardly a moment later
Adrian heard the outer door bang.

Susie was in bed when Isabel flung
herself into the room and, bending over,
cried excitedly: “Is your father in New
York?”

“Why ... yes .... I think so. But,
Isabel darling, what on earth is all the
excitement about?”

“Never mind what it’s about,” Isabel
put. in curtly. “You’ll know in good
time. Tell me the address of your
father’s office, and stay here until* you
hear from one of the two of us.”

Unwilling to abandon her newly
awakened curiosity, yet unable to resist
the authority of Isabel’s tone, Susie
grudgingly obeyed. Almost before the
words were out of her mouth, Isabel had
vanished.

On the way down to Nassau Street in
the taxicab, much of Isabel’s divine
ardor cooled. But again and again the
memory of Cecil’s supposed injustice re-
turned to give her new strength, new
rage, new decision.

Nevertheless, it was a frightened and
extremely nervous young woman who
went into the small first-floor office
under the sign “Direct Wire” which had
once attracted Veronica French.

Inside there was pandemonium.
Around the ticker a group of greasy men
in shirt-sleeves stood chewing the* butts
of their cigars, and growling. The win-
dows were all tightly closed, and the
place reeked of stale tobacco, and sweat,
so that a wave of sheer nausea kept Isa-
bel swaying, for an instant, in the door-
way.

Several men turned and grinned at
her. One of them, a hippopotamus with
three days’ growth of beard and no col-
lar, said: “Veil, keed, vot do ya vant,
huh?”

“I want to see Mr. Isaac Burnham,”
said Isabel, -n an almost inaudible voice.
“Is he here?”

“Vait, and I’ll see.” The man went
past her to a door labelled “Private,”
poked in his head, and shouted: “Hey,
Ike, here’s a laity to see you.”

Isabel heard the reply: “What the hell
for?”

“I shouid know so much,” said the
large man, and withdrew his head, to
inquire of Isabel, with an ambiguous
wink: “Vot’s your business — he vants
you should tell me. Poisonal, huh?”

With a last spurt of courage, Isabel
pushed him aside; found herself in a
small close office, with the father of her
friend.

The light was dim. For an instant
the man w.th his feet on the desk stared,
then, all of a piece, he got up.

“You!” he cried, and Isabel thought
he sounded frightened. “Whassamatter?
Anything wrong with Suey?”

“No.” Isabel began to feel calmer.
“No. I came to see you ... on busi-
ness. I once said that if I ever had a
chance to do you a good turn I would.”

“Now,” he said kindly, “what did you
want to tell me. Spit it out, youngster.
Don’t be afraid.”

December. 1926: Vol. X.. No. 4

CcncJian Railrocdcr, Montreal

“I’m not afraid. It is you who have
something to fear, Mr. Burnham. I have
come to tell you that I discovered— quite
accidentally— that within the week you
and your partner will be arrested on
a charge of bucketing.”

Isaac, jumping up, seized her arms.

•‘Say, you,” he squealed, “don’t you go
spreading any such lying rumors.”

With a shudder of repulsion Isabel
freed herself.

•‘You may count on my discretion,”
she said coldly. “And I hope, equally,
that I may count on yours. Good morn-
ing, Mr. Burnham,” and with her nose
in the air and a flaming color on her
cheeks, Isabel went out of the stinking-
office, into the sweet air of winter.

Presently Isaac pounded a bell on his
desk, s multaneously yelling: “Hey, Wil-
lie . . .Will.e Rabinowitz .. . come on,
you loafer, get a move on . . .” And
when his double summons was answered :
“You, Willie, you do what I say now.
Shake a leg. You get up to my wife’s
place up there on Park Avenue . . .
drive my car up, you see, and you bring
the Missus and my girl down here.
Don’t come back without ’em, d’ye hear?”

Evidently Willie did. For after a
time the outer door opened, and Olive
Burnham, in a black tailored suit, with
a scarf of silver fox about her throat,
came in, followed by a still sleepy
daughter.

“Sit down,” said the head of the fam-
ily. “I got a serious matter to talk
about to you.”

CHAPTER XIX.

BROKEN BUBBLES.

“I fancied as much,” said Olive, stif-
fling a yawn with a carefully white-
gloved hand. “Do proceed. Is it true
that you are a crook?”

Isaac scrutinized her for a while. “I
guess you can stand it,” he said, philo-
sophically. “It is true.”

“I am not astonished. And just what
does it mean?”

“It means,” Isaac ground out, smash-
ing his hands down on the desk, “that at
best PH lose every nickel and go to the
jug too. See?”

“And pray,” inquired Olive, with ad-
mirable self-control, “what is to become
of your wife and daughter if you pay
the penalty for your crimes?”

“There’s still a chance. It ain’t much,
and it ain’t sure. But it’s a chance
worth gambling on. My assets, which
ought to"be somewhere around two hun-
dred and twenty thousand bucks, is about
seventyifive grand. If I can raise
enough money to fill in — if I can do it
quick — there’s a chance to give those
legal fellows the slip. Just a chance,
mind you. The market, curse it, is soar-
ing every minute, and if we’re called on
to deliver certain stocks — well — we re
caught short, and done in.”

“Pretty,” said Olive. “Very pretty
indeed.” ‘ She drew her scarf more close-
ly about her. “And what is this chance
of which you speak? This slender
chance?”

“You got jewels worth two hundred
and fifty thousand between the two of
you. That means that in a p.nch. . •
say, between now and tomorrow morning
I could probably raise about a hundred
and thirty. Mebbe less. So that’s it.

N ow how about it? Going to come

across?

For all the movement she made, Olive
might have been Lot’s wife after she
had turned to look at Sodom and Gomor-
rah. But Susie, little red-haired Susie,
flung herself across the room, stripping
off rings and jewelled bracelets as she
went, and cryino-: “Yes, daddy. Oh, yes.
How could you even ask? Of course
everything’s yours, daddy, and the busi-
ness will be saved, won’t it? And every-
thing will be wonderful, won’t it, daddy
darling?”

“I hope to God it will!” cried poor
Isaac, in a voice shaken with gratitude
and amazement.

Susie quietly unclasped the pearls from
about her neck. Glowing like lovely liv-
ing things, they fell into her cupped, ex-
tended hands.

Then it was that Olive, the immobile,
came back to life. “Stop it, you little
fool!” she screamed. “You don’t know
what you’re doing. Slender chance, in-
deed. And if it fails, are we expected
to starve in the streets?” Pushing Susie
behind her, she faced her husband, a
fury unchained. “And you — you dirty
scoundrel!” she gasped. “Wanting to
take away your baby’s jewels for your
own selfish ends!”

“It was to save the business!” Isaac
shouted at her. “To save us all, you
madwoman !”

“To save your own neck, you mean.
To — to — to — to take with you when you
beat it for a foreign country.” She veer-
ed about. “Susannah, put on your
rings . . . and let us leave the lair of
this viper who calls himself a man. . .”

Left alone, Isaac Burnham sat with
his head bowed, and his hands limply at
his side. After a time Willie Rabino-
witz came and touched his shoulder, say-
ing gently: “Say boss, you ain’t had any
luncheon. Can’t I get you a san’wich?”

As if this unexpected touch of kind-
ness was too much for him to bear, Isaac
put his head upon the desk, and sobbed.

* * *

Thursday.

Richard Du Maurier entered the an-
cient offices of an ancient publishing

house.

The girl behind a maple desk near
the entrance greeted Du Maurier by
name ... but not by the name of Du
Maurier.

“Whom do you wish to see, Mr. Mad-
den?” she asked politely.

He told her, and after a time found
h'mself comfortably seated in one of the
fenced enclosures. A little man in a
morning coat, who looked like an unusu-
ally intelligent crow, greeted him cordi-
ally.

“Well, Dick,” he said, “have you any-
thing for us?”

“Nothing today,” laughed Du Maurier.
“But I came to tell you that I’ve almost
f nished the new novel ... a corker, if
I say so myself.”

“Tell me about the opus.”

“It’s based on fact, for one thing, and
?ou might be sued for libel in case of
publication, if it were not for the tact
hat the young woman upon whose emo-
ions I have drawn for much valuable
material docs not belong to the suing
•lass. I have called it “The Eternal

“When will you be ready to show us
the new book?”

“It’s at the typist’s now. I’ll have it
back tonight; tomorrow I’ll edit it; and
on Monday morning I will offer it for
your perusal.”

“Excellent, my boy. We always need
good stuff. And although I think you
receive altogether too many compliments
as it is, I must tell you that I agree with
the critic who called you one of the few
men in America who write English.”

Both men arose, and shook hands.

“By the way,” Du Maurier said, “I
am reduced to riding in the subway. If
you have a morning paper about. I
should like to borrow it to read on my
way up -town.”

The Crow provided Du Maurier with
a copy of the “Times,” and Du Maurier
departed.

There were not many people riding
up-town at that time of the morning,
and he was able to unfold his paper, and
go through it at his ease. On the second
page a heading caught his eye — one of
those glaring scandals of which the pap-
ers were full these days. The headline
read: “Broker Accused of Bucketing
Absconds with Firm’s Assets.” It went
on to explain that the police were hunt-
ing for one Isaac Burnham, who had been
missing, along with assets to the tune
of about sixty thousand dollars since the
previous afternoon. Beneath, in smaller
letters, it said: “Wife and Daughter of
Absconding Broker Left with Nothing
but Debts.”

Du Maurier, shaken out of his indif-
ference into a pity that number him with
its violence, left the train at Grand Cen-
tral, and made his way U" Park Avenue.

In the Burnham apartment confusion
reigned. Du Maurier, with difficulty
convincing a much excited Barbara that
he was not a reporter, was given access
to the drawing-room. There Susie was
alone.

She was not crying when he saw her,
but came to him as might a queen, dry-
eyed, with hands outstretched.

“You know?” she asked. He nodded.
She, bravely attempting to smile, said:
“You are the first to come to me. . . .
And I ... I did you an injustice, Dick
Du Maurier. I thought you’d be the
first to turn away from poor penniless
Susie.”

“We all attempt to stand by our friends
when they are in trouble,” he said with
some embarrassment. “I may be the
first, but believe me, others will follow.
You have had too little confidence in our
loyalty.

Pie took her hands, again beringed,
and pressed them to his lips.

“Confidence!” she mocked. “Confidence
and loyalty! Oh, my God! How is one
to have faith when one’s own father —
one’s dearly beloved father . . .”

They sat down.

Du Maurier, preserving sense — or
cowardice — enough to wish to hear some
sort of story before making a formal
proposal of marriage, listened to the
endless list of grievances.

He realized that Susie was on the
verge of hysterics. With swift action at-
tributed to the very reat, he gathered
her into h's arms, compunction almost
overwhelming him. Once more that vio-
lent, hateful pity tore at his breast,
where he cradled Susie like an infant,
rocking, soothing, endearing.

Canadian Railroader , Montreal

December, 1926; Vol. X,, No. 4

Anon she raised a wet and agonized
face to be mo™ed off with a pocket
handkerchief. Her tantrum had left her
spent, exhausted, so weak it was an ef-
fort to make an incoherent whisper.
Grubbing about like a nig amor- acorns,
Du Maurier succeeded in locating a bottle
of whiskey. Withdrawing from the odor,
which he abhorred, he poured out a stout
drink, and almost fed it to Susie. Pre-
sently a little color came into her pale
cheeks, and she asked weakly for an-
other. After that she felt a little better,
and after a third, although Du Maurier
begged her to be quiet, she resumed the
talk about her own frightful misfortunes.

Her conversational effort tired her
considerably; more drinks were found
necessary to sustain her in her sorrow.
For a while she became cheered, optim-
istic, affectionate, almost buoyant. For
some time the aching pity had ceased
clutching at Du Maurier's heart. And
now, with his customary detachment be-
ginning to reassert itself, 'he was being-
forced toward a disagreeable admission.
Susie was rapidly getting drunk. In
fact a less charitable person might have
said that Susie already was very drunk
indeed.

It will never be known with what re-
lief Du Maurier greeted the sound of
the door-bell, and the subsequent arrival
of Wadsworth Silverstein, armed with
American Beauty roses in a receptable
from which the stems nrotruded almost
two feet.

Du Maurier rose precipitously; he wel-
comed Silverstein with something so like
effusion that the younger man stared in
wide-eyed wonder.

“You are just in time, just in the nick
of time!” exclaimed Du Maurier. I have
a very important engagement, excessive-
ly important, I might really say urgent.”
/-nd he shook Silverstein’s hand so vio-
lently as almost to sever it from the
wrist. “Perhaps, also,” he remarked,
after taking a farewell from Susie to
which she did not pay the slightest at-
tention, “you will be a more successful
comforter than I have been. I have
great confidence in your ability as a
comforter, great confidence,” and with
this final word of encouragement, Du
Maurier made his escape.

CHAPTER XX.

BACK TO ISABEL.

Cecil had gone back to Philadelphia,
accompanied this time by the junior
partner of Harcourt, Hutchinson & Vin-
cennes, to see whether anything at all
could be done about the Burnham busi-
ness.

Anastasie was taking her customary
Friday off. Adrian was sullen. He
wanted to be left alone with his bottle of
whisky and his morbid thoughts. So Isa-
bel stood alone in the empty studio, look-
ing out of the north window upon light
mist and sweetly tempered sunshine. She
was profoundly discouraged. With work,
with love, with life, with everything.

A sharp rapping aroused her from her
reverie. She called “Come in.” Though
she evinced little surprise when Du Mau-
rier entered, she was seized with a sort
of claustrophobia; she felt that she was
about to suffocate; the walls and ceiling
of the room folded inward, upon her.
“Good morning,” she said in an ordinary
voice.

Du Maurier stood out against a black
gap of unlit hallway, immaculate as al-
ways, a gardenia stuck in his buttonhole.

With a feeling of anguished and tor-
mented joy, Isabel knew that her lover
was returned.

“Good morning,” he answered, closing
the door behind him, and beginning to
strip off his grey suede gloves. “All by
yourself?”

“Yes. Cecil has "one to Philadelphia
to see what can be done about this
wretched Burnham affair. I am over-
joyed to have you interrupt the import-
ant business of wondering whether it
will snow.”

Thus the lover's reunion . . .

“Won't snow,” promised Du Maurier
optimistically, “because I have just got-
ten my roadster from the shop, and I
am taking it out for exercise.”

“Where are you going?” she asked,
her voice sounding befurred.

“Didn't you know I was landed gen-
try? I have a country estate. It has
three bedrooms; a living-room; two store-
rooms, one for fishing-rods and one for
old letters; a bath; and a kitchen. It is
in the middle of a marsh on the south
shore of Long Island, and as marshes
are inclined to be damp it probably needs
a coat of paint. I'm going out to see,
because I intend to occupy it this sum-
mer.” .

Isabel looked up after an interminable
wait. “Is it very far?”

“Good three and a half hours' ride.
It’s nine country miles from the nearest
village. Coming along?”

Isabel hesitated for an instant, think-
ing of Adrian left alone. But, after all,
he would not let her stay with him if she
were there. And besides, she remember-
ed only too well the old adage about op-
portunity knocking but once. She could
not afford to deny an answer. “You
just watch me!” she cried, and skipped
toward the bedroom, her lips revealing
an unexpected dimple in either cheek.

Ten minutes later she was freshly
clothed from her white silk chemise to
the little fur toque that was pulled
far down over her ears.

When she went in to say good-bye to
Adrian, he looked at her with cynical
amusement. “You wear the sacrificial
robes, I see,” he said. “Where is the
altar?”

Briefly she explained Du Maurier's
proposed excursion to the country.
“Good!” cried Adrian. “If you can only
manage to get stuck there overnight,
you'll have your way before morning.”
And with this suggestion, he bade fare-
well to Isabel.

As for Du Maurier, he limited his re-
marks to the suggestion that she change
her sheer gray silk stockings and high-
heeled patent leather slippers to some-
thing more practical for rural use.
Whereupon Isabel, convinced that her ap-
pearance delighted him, remarked that
she would freeze before she would
change.

“You'll probably freeze before you
have a chance to,” Du Maurier prophe-
sied as he helped her into a long squirrel
wrap. “But I am forced to confess that
there is something deliciously naughty
about little silk ankles under a big cape.
My friend, who is waiting in the car,
will undoubtedly admire you enormous-
ly.”

Isabel's heart sank with a thud, but
outside, when she saw the friend, she
burst out laughing.

“This is Achilles,” announced Du Mau-
rier.

They climbed into the car, and Du
Maurier put the dog on Isabel's lap.

Du Maurier threw in the clutch, the
roadster snorted responsively, and they
were off, started upon the greatest ad-
venture Isabel was ever to know.

“This seems like old times,” said Du
Maurier tentatively.

A little, dumb nod. The car sped on,
ever on. “Wack-awack-wack . . .”

“We’ll stop somewhere and have a bite
of lunch. Another hour and we turn
into the Marsh.”

Two hours . . . they had been driving
for more than two hours.

“Here we are! Jump out. Legs
stiff?”

“Sort of.”

They had stopped before a sad dis-
hevelled-looking roadhouse.

“Have to take the key,” Du Maurier
remarked as they uncramped themselves.
“Couldn’t afford to be stranded here
without a car, could we?”

Isabel, reminded of Adrian's parting
words, replied practically: “Is the key
so important? Can't you start a car
anyway? . . .”

“Not this one,” Du Maurier informed
her with fatherly pride.

They left Achilles in the car and as-
cended the groaning steps. A man in blue
overalls brought them luncheon — lamb
stew and steaming coffee.

Then something happened. As they
went out on the porch a handsome bare-
headed girl ran up the path. “Hello,
Dick,” she cried — and stopped, flushing
to the roots of her corn-flax hair.

Du Maurier greeted her amiably
enough — he called her Charity. And he
and Isabel went their way. But Isabel’s
peace was spoiled. She knew that she
must hold her man; that at all costs she
must bind him with some irrevocable
bond. “If you can only manage to get
stuck there overnight . . . you'll have
your way before morning.” That was
what Adrian had said.

As he opened the door of the car, Du
Maurier saw the look in Isabel’s eyes,
and before it he was suddenly silent.

“I don't know that we should go on,”
pronounced Du Maurier with a mistrust-
ful glance at the heavens. “Looks like
snow, and the marshes are impassable
when it's snowing.

Isabel's heart leaned.

“Oh, go on, go on!” she cried impati-
ently. “Now that we've come this far,
it would be a shame to turn back.”

“Very well, dearest,” agreed Du Mau-
rier. “On it is.”

The road wound in, out, over shaky
board bridges, through ice-filled crevices,
threading the body of the marsh, all
veined, at it was, with silver strands of
the sea.

Du Maurier twisted the steering-wheel
vigorously back and forth, staring
straight ahead. “It's too late to turn
her back,” he explained. “I’m afraid of
snow.”

Even as he spoke they crossed a bridge
and, swinging to the left, passed a
clump of gnarled oak-trees. The turn
revealed, at a distance of several hun-
dred feet, the object of their journey, a
small slate-roofed brick cottage.”

“Oh!” gasped Isabel. “It's like a
dream come true. It is a dream come
true.”

December. 1926: Vol. X.. No. 4

Canadian Railroader, Montrt

“Yes,” said Du Maurier, “the dream
of a rather sober ancestor, who did not
mind mosquitoes.” He added, in a tone
which betrayed his appreciation of her
compliment: “Wait till you see the in-
side. Then judge. We’ll have to jump
out here. As you can see, there is no
more road.”

He parked the car in the shelter of a
great, twisted oak with spatula te
branches, and hurried ahead to unlock
the door and bid his guest welcome. Isa-
bel watched him, as, followed by Achilles,
he walked up the narrow flagged path to
the cottage, tall and straight and proud.
As she watched him she knew that it was
her man who went there, her own man,
the only mate she would ever know.

As she got out of the car she took the
key to the motor and, looking at the
house to make sure she was unobserved,
dropped it into her purse. When she
rejoined Du Maurier a+ the cottage, he
saw that the queer look was in her eyes
again.

And, for the second time, he was silent.

CHAPTER XXI.

THE LOST KEY.

From the entrance hall, Isabel had
followed Du Maurier into a square
room which shared with the kitchen the
ground floor of the house, and afforded,
through a threefold bay window, a view
of marsh and sea. Here well-filled open
bookcases lined the walls. In one corner
stood a grandfather’s clock.

“Now for a fire,” said Du Maurier.
“The house is like an icebox. There is
kindling here.” He pointed to a rush
basket filled with logs and bundle^ of
twigs, tied together with marsh grass.
“You might run into the pantry and see
if you can find some tea. Later we’ll
make the rounds and see what needs
fixing.”

In the kitchen Isabel found an assort-
ment of provisions, but almost immedi-
ately her preparations were interrupted
by Du Maurier.

“Damn it,” he shouted, “it’s beginning
to snow.” He dropped his bundle of
kindling-wood in the middle of the rug,
and commanded: “Put the kettle down
anywhere and get your coat. We haven’t
a minute to lose.”

Isabel’s heart beat a little faster, but
without a word she slipped into her coat,
and whistled for Achilles, who had wan-
dered into the upper regions of the cot-
tage, and characteristically settled him-
self to sleep. By the time she had locat-
ed him and, failing at persuasion, car-
ried his squirming body down the stairs,
it was snowing in earnest.

She met Du Maurier coming up the
flagged walk. “Let’s have the key to
the car,” he called.

“The key to the car?” She opened her
eyes very wide. “Why, Dick ... I
thought you took it.”

Du Maurier glanced at her sharply.
“Better make sure you haven’t it. The
old bug won’t start without. . .

“It can’t just disappear,” Isabel un-
necessarily averred, making pretence oi
searching in her bag. “Did you look in
all your pockets . . . and . . . and in
the seat? It must be somewhere.’

“So it must.”

A little chill of fright prickled her
spine.

‘We . . . that is . . . we had better
look again,” she said, hoping her nerv-
ousness would be attributed to fear of
being marooned.

“Yes, we had better look again,” echoed
Du Maurier.

They did. In vain, of course. Mean-
while, the snow thickened, driven in
flurries by the wind. Achilles had gone,
tail pendant, back toward the cottage.

• “It looks as though we’ll have to fol-
low his example,” said Du Maurier.

“Isn’t there a wire or something —
that you can adjust?”

“No — I thought I told you — I had a
special lock made, after my last car was
stolen.

His sally was received by a weak
laugh. Isabel rubbed the snow off her
face and supposed, faintly, they would
have to walk.

“We can’t walk, Isabel. It’s the key
or nothing.” Again she felt his eyes
upon her, searching.

“But, Dick . . .” Business of clutch-
ing his arm, located with difficulty in
the blinding dance of the snow. “We’ll
have to walk. You must understand. . .
why. . . . we’ll simply have to . . .”

“We’ll have to stay right here, until
the storm stops. It’s suicide to try to
walk . . .” and he checked a move on
her part with a peremptory grin.

“Is there a telephone?” she asked, fin-
ally. “I suppose we can get some char-
itable soul to come and salvage us.”

“Telephone’s disconnected.”

“There’s nothing else to do?” she ask-
ed, trying to keep the tremor from her
voice. “We’ll have to stay. . . ?”

“Yes,” said Du Maurier, “we’ll have
to stay.”

Hand in hand they moved up the
flagged path, Isabel feeling like a des-
perado, yet suddenly afraid.

“No lights either,” he remarked, as
the door closed finally behind them, “ex-
cept candles, of course. That’s a fetish
of mine you know. Candlelight.”

“Well,” Isabel observed philosophically,
“I had better return to my tea.” She
added: “It’s some consolation to know
that I’ll have time to make biscuits.
And there is jam on the shelf.”

“I think you will find canned vege-
tables, too,”* said Du Maurier, looking
down at her. “I’m sorry this happened,

Isabel.” T . ^

“I’m sorry too,” she lied, bowing her

head.

He lifted her face with a hand under
her chin. “Say it’s not my fault, Isabel,
and that you aren’t . . . angry at me?

Almost inaudibly: “I know it’s not
your fault,” she whispered. “And . . .
I’m not angry ... of course.”

Outside, the snow fell softly, like
Ided footsteps.

At seven o’clock they sat down to a
promptu supper. Between them there
ssed no single word of the exigency
it enforced their domestic bliss. Like
sband and wife they bandied triviali-
3 in the candlelight. They were af-
tionate and gay, but underneath the
•face of their banter a certain tense
jectancy ran like a liquid flame.

A.fter supper Isabel cleared off the
>le poured water heated on the stove
o the sink, and applied herself to the
siness of dish-washing.

Anon she joined him. She stood he-
ld the couch looking down at Du Mau-
, r as he watched the leaping fire.

Then, without disturbing the peace wi
conversation, she walked to the booi
shelves and began to look about.

“You have some fascinating books,”
she said at last. “What is this shelf?
. . . all sorts of books on magic, and
folklore, and . . . why, some of them are
in Latin, Dick. Are you so horriblv
erudite?”

He walked over, balancing a cigarette
between his fingers. “The prize of all
of them ” he observed, tapping the white
calf back of a certain book, “is in plain
English. The author’s name was An-
dronomy, Luther Andronomy. He died
penniless and outcast about twenty years
ago. His book, the work of a lifetime,
was banned by our holy Catholic
Church ”

“Our? Surely, Du Maurier, you are
not ”

“I am. I adhere to the most pagan
and picturesque of modern religions.”

“I don’t think I shall ever understand
you, Dick,” isighed Isabel. “Unless—
not even if— —I learn all about your ante-
cedents, which, of course, I never will.”

“Why don’t you try asking, littl^ owl?
Don’t you remember, 'Seek and ye shall
find’?”

Isabel stared, questioning his sincerity.
She perceived that he was quite in
earnest.

“Tell me,” she pointed to the painting
over the fire-place, “about your an-
cestor . . . Madame or was it Mademoi-
selle? — du Lac.”

“Madame,” Du Maurier replied. “Be-
fore she married, her name was Du Mau-
rier. She is the ancestress through
whom Andrea Dartie and I claim re-
lationship. My mother, a Lenox, from
Lenox, Massachusetts.”

Isabel, who had been aroused, con-
trolled herself sufficiently to ask: “Are
. . . your parents dead?”

“To all intents and purposes,” said
Du Maurier. “Mind if I smoke a pipe?”
Isabel made a negative gesture, and
when he had filled the shining brown
bowl with tobacco, Du Maurier resumed :
“I am the only romantic member of an
otherwise normal family.” Du Maurier
halted, and then, as one who throws dis-
cretion to the winds: “As you suggested
long ago, my dear,” he said, “my mys-
tery is not an actual one. Like certain
noble creatures who live at the bottom
of the sea, I have builded me a home
upon my back, and I carry it wherever
I go.”

“Like Mary and her little lamb,” sug-
gested Isabel.

Du Maurier realized, as men at crucial
moments rarely do, that he was about to
commit himself irrevocably.

“My name,” he said, “is not Du Mau-
rier, but ”

“Lenox Madden!” Isabel cried out.
Amused at the expression of his face,
“0, Dick, my Dick,” she chuckled. “I
should have known. When I read ‘The
Younger Generation,’ I kept on thinking
how many of your lines you’d stolen
from it . . . and I never guessed.” She
took his hands and looked into h's face.
“Why was it such a secret, Dick?”

“Because — the answer is involved with
— ” he paused, seeking the right word —
“a complex, really. You see I like to be
mysterious. Besides, I wanted to write
— to write real people.”

Isabel broke in: “I knew when I read
that book that the heroine was Cynthia,

Canadian Railroader . Montreal

December. 1926: Vol. X., No. 4

it che would choke you if she knew you
f r rote it, wouldn't she?"
y He shrugged. “Very few people knew
my secret when I came back from the
war. Andrea Dartie, and Veronica
French, and Andrea’s husband, of course.
Then there were the ones like Cyril Har-
court and my publishers, who knew Mad-
den but not Du Maurier."

Isabel looked up. “You might have
told me, Dick," she whispered.

“I almost did — once. That night when
you wore rubies . . ."

Abruptly, as though afraid of the dis-
tance he had travelled unawares, Du
Maurier swung back to the bookcase.
“We’ve forgotten Luther Andronomy,"
he said. “You’ll want to see him."

“Do let me have it for a moment. And
Isabel, interested in spite of herself,
reached for the book. Du Maurier let
her take it to the fire and watched her
. as she turned the pages.

On page 465, under the letter L, Isabel
found the following passage:

“The superstitions, so prevalent in
Europe during the Tenth, Eleventh and
Twelfth Century, having to do with the
appearance in dreams of a White Leo-
pard, supposedly originated in a native
tribe of South Africa. The White Leo-
pard, originally symbolizing the instinct
for motherhood owed its importance to
the intimation of racial increase, and
thus appealed to the desire for conquest.
It was customary to sacrifice the fathers
of brides upon the altar, in the belief
that the father’s soul would pass into his
daughter’s body, thus causing her to give
birth to a son.

CHAPTER XXII
A PREDICTION COME TRUE.

The room was silent as a tomb.

Isabel let the book slit) from her hands
and heard the beating of her heart. The
memory of Rousillon flashed through
her mind like a nightmare, followed by
the thought of Adrian . . . alone.

“What is it, Isabel?" Du Maurier was
at her side, holding her shuddering body
in his arms.

“I’m frightened, Dick, terribly fright-
ened. That book ’’ She bit her

under lip, but finally burst out. “I
shouldn’t have left father all alone. If
anything should happen "

“But you couldn’t help this, could
you?" She made no answer to the ques-
tion, only shivered, and, “Don’t be a
child," he said. “Forget about it."

They sat together listening to the
clock, the crackling flames, the whistling
of the wind. But the spell of peace was
broken.

“I think I’ll go upstairs," said Isabel,
at length. Her tone was weary and
discouraged. “A little sleep ’’

“Would do you good," Du Maurier
concluded for her. “Better take the first
room on the right. The beds are made,
at any rate. I always leave them that
way."

“Thanks." She took up the candle-
stick and moved away.

Du Maurier, flinging the rare and
precious volume from him, sat moodily
upon the couch. Many moments passed
in deep thought and then Du Maurier
grew conscious of a sound, and looking
up saw Isabel beside him. The grey fur
coat was drawn close about her* and
stopped at the knees; above the high-

heeled patent leather shoes her legs
were bare. So, in his dreams, he might
have found her.

“Dick," she said, and stood clutching
her coat. “I was afraid alone, Dick.
And so — and so I came to you."

She dropped beside him; the grey fur
brushed against his cheek.

Slowly he kissed her. Then, holding
her by the shoulders, looked steadfastly
into her eyes, wide and dilated now, wet
with the tremulous and eager fright of
passion-swept virginity.

The fire was burned to embers. Only
a fitful local glow about the hearth
saved the still room from total darkness.

Isabel, opening her eyes, looked about,
knowing she had not moved since that
first kiss, yet sensing some change in all
about her. The darkness gathered. A
sense of sleepy thickness weighed upon
her eyes. She wondered where she was.

A hand was clasped in hers.

“Rousillon?" she whispered.

And then with an abrupt sensa of her
own stupidity, knew that it was Du Mau-
rier whose hand she held.

Upon a stillness as of slumber, the
voice of Du Maurier broke in. “My
dear, my dear," whispered Du Maurier.

Then Isabel knew that their dreams
had been one, and there was a song of
gladness in her heart.

And in this hour of Isabel’s triumph,
Du Maurier put his hand against her
breast, and whispered gravely: “I love
you, Isabel. I want you for my wife. I
want you always . . ."

Outside, the snow fell softly like
padded footsteps.

* * *

The brevity of Cecil’s trip was ex-
ceeded only by its fruitlessness. A
dozen others, having gone to Phila-
delphia for a purpose similar to hers,
had stood about exchanging grievances
in the lobby of the Bellevue-Stratford,
and outside the District Attorney’s of-
- ice. Late in the afternoon had come
a rumour that Isaac Burnham had re-
turned; would pay his debts in full. One
newspaper hinted that the good angel
was a suitor of Isaac’s daughter, and
Cecil suspected shrewdly that the mantle
fitted Silverstein. But as there was no
further news forthcoming, so she took
an evening train back to New York.

It was nearly midnight when she got
in, but knowing that Cyril Harcourt was
in the habit of reading late before an
open fire, she took a cab directly to his
house. There would be great relief in
pouring out her troubles in her em-
ployer’s sympathetic ear, and she long-
ed for the balm of his patient philosophy.
But when she arrived a yawning butler
said that Mr. Harcourt had left at tea-
time in Mrs. French’s car; nor could he
tell what time his master would return.

With the sting of jealousy exaggerat-
es her depression, Cecil went home.
The studio was dark, and she collided
with malicious corners as she hunted
for the lamp. In the empty bedroom
the covers were not turned down; that
meant that Anastasie had not returned.
Cecil — who had secretly counted on a
cup of steaming coffee, but was too tired
to get it for herself — reflected irritably
on the faults of mankind in general, and
ot Isabel in particular. What business
had the silly kid in going out ... in
leaving Adrian alone?

Cecil crossed the studio and tapped
gently at her father’s door. There was
no answer, and cautiously she pushed it
open. A reading-lamp shed a green
glow over tumbled covers and cushions.
The bed was empty.

Cecil slipped into the room, only to
stop, pressing her fingers against* her
throat.

Adrian lay face downwards on the
floor.

It seemed that she stood for an hour
clinging to the bedpost, staring at the
twisted body of her father. Then she
shook herself like a dog and, walking
steadily across the floor, dropped to her
knees. As she did so, she heard a faint

sound. He was alive, then

Adrian, lying so still, so very still, was
yet alive. . . .

Cecil struggled to turn the body over;
found it a dead-weight in her hands.
When at last she succeeded, she saw that
there were four long scratches upon his
throat; ragged, still wet with blood.

At first it seemed that not a muscle
so that a faint line of white show-
wards, so that a faint line of white show-
ed beneath the iris. But immediately
the faint sound that Cecil had heard be-
fore was repeated; one corner of the
mouth began to twitch spasmodically.
Cecil was convinced that her father had
recognized her.

CHAPTER XXIII.

CECIL’S HECTIC DAY.

Failing in her attempt to get Adrian
on the bed, Cecil stood undecided. Fin-
ally she took the telephone and managed
to give the number of the Teutonic
specialist who had been so soundly cur-
sed by Adrian a few weeks before. He
was out on an emergency call, and with
a blank, empty feeling, Cecil left her
address and a message that he was to
come as soon as possible. She recalled
that there was a doctor on the floor
above, and found herself thumping in-
sistently upon his door, shouting:
“Don’t stop to dress. My father . . .
I think he’s had a stroke!"

Her opinion was grudgingly confirm-
ed by the redheaded Dr. Carroway, who
hated to agree with an amateur diag-
nosis; and later by Dr. Schlegel; and by
Dr. McDonald, a white-haired gentleman
with an international reputation. Cecil
succeeded in forcing the truth from
harsh, competent Dr. Schlegel: Adrian
had lost the use of those of his limbs
which had not previously been crippled,
and owing to the condition of his heart
it seemed unlikely that he would live to
see another sunrise.

At three o’clock a nurse arrived.
Cecil was bundled off to her own room
with a summary command to “get some
sleep" which brought a smile to her lips.
If only Isabel would come! Cecil had
a persistent picture of her sister danc-
ing at Montmartre or the Rendezvous,
laughing and talking, careless — she had
always been careless — of the drama
that was unfolding itself at home.
There was no hope of sleep. Instead,
she bathed, redressed her hair, put on
fresh clothes, and sat down on the couch
in the studio, listening to the low voices
behind Adrian’s door. It seemed a long
time that she sat there straining to
catch the sound of footsteps perhaps of
laughter in the corridor outside, for
when, starting wide awake, she glanced
at her watch, it was after six. She
knew at once that Isabel had not re-

December, 1926: Vol. X.. No. 4

turned but crowding out that fear came
another — that Adrian had died while
she was sleeping-

By some miracle he had not. Dr.
Carrowav explained that her father was
in rather better shape than before. He
could even talk— not very distinctly or
coherently, but if his heart had not been
in bad shape from ten years’ constant
drinking he might have lived on for an-
other decade. As it was • • •

“A matter of hours, Cecil echoed
stupidly. Then: “May I see him?”

“Later, perhaps.”

“Has he asked for me?”

“No.” Once he had called the name
of Isabel. For the rest his mumblings
had all been rather mad. Something
about a wild beast— a tiger, or a leopard.
Dr. Schlegel had been kind enough to
throw some light on the subject.

It appeared that during an attack of
delirium tremens — or was it two at-
tacks? — he had suffered from the same
delusion. He must have been drinking
a good deal . . . shouldn’t have been
left alone . . . had practically torn his
throat to shreds with his own hand.

“His own hand?” Again Cecil heard
her voice as an echo. “The marks look-
ed so . . .so catlike.”

“Nonsense!” And cross because
Cecil’s remark had seconded an uncom-
fortable observation of his own, the doc-
tor concluded, tactfully: “A very inter-
esting case. Captain Rayburn has prom-
ised us his body for post mortem exam-
ination.”

Once more Cecil was alone. The grey
light had started to shimmer outside the
window; it was going to be a fine day.

At eight o’clock there was a knock at
the door. A boy handed her a telegram
— from Isabel, she was sure. With
hands that trembled as they had not
done when she touched Adrian’s par-
alysed body, Cecil tore it open. She
read :

“Were married this afternoon. Wire
blessing Ritz, Atlantic City. Veronica
and Cyril.”

* * *

Isabel and Du Maurier arrived in New
York with barely time enough to get
their license before the department
closed for the day.

As if overnight, Du Maurier had fallen
in love. Fallen in love with that inten-
sity of which only the complete egotist
seems capable.

Isabel’s first sensation when she
awoke that morning had been one of be-
wildered amazement. Tradition and
training had taught her to expect some-
thing very different of life; a changed
outlook, a sense of victorious maturity,
or one of shame. It had seemed odd
that the world could be so lovely, so
serene.

Later, “I’ll make a bad husband,” Du
Maurier told her passionately. “I am
selfish and cruel. I’ve never been hon-
est even with myself. I’ll make you ter-
ribly unhappy.”

To which Isabel replied: I d rathe*

be unhappy with you than happy with
anyone else.” .

“Will you mind being married by a

priest?” ,,

“No— but why, Dick ? Do you really
care? I never knew you had any re-
ligion.”

“I have — I always have had. I’ve
been a bad Catholic, but I’ve been a
Catholic all the time. I was educated
bv a priest, you see, a Jesuit. He s in
New York — an old man, now; but still

my Father Confessor. I’d like him to
marry us.”

“And so would I. We must call
pupaw as soon as we get in. I feel so
guilty about leaving him,” she explained.

But when they arrived, there was no
time to telephone. They had forgotten
that Saturday was a half-holiday, and
that the Marriage License Bureau closed
at noon.

Of the big room in the Municipal
Building Isabel received but a vague im-
pression. Long rows of tables with
aisles between them; a confused babel
of inarticulate foreigners asking ques-
tons of other inarticulate foreigners.
Then she and Du Maurier had handed
their slips into the cage and had re-
ceived the license.

Outside in the crystalline air,” “Dar-
ling,” whispered Du Maurier, “can you
believe that in a few hours we’ll be mar-
ried?”

And indeed Isabel had wished for this
moment such a long time that, now it
was here, she could hardly believe in it.

As they drove up-town, past piles of
snow already melting, Isabel looked at
the buildings climbing towards the tur-
quoise sky, and thought: “They’re real,
and so am I. And Dick is really going
to be my husband.”

CHAPTER XXIV.

WELCOME HOME.

Penally they stopped, and Du Maurier
helped her out of the car. She laughed
uneasily and went into the house.

The janitress looked embarrassed when
they put Achilles in her charge; the cor-
ridor was dull and cheerless; the fo>ei
outside the studio was so black that Isa-
bel could not find her key. In the dark-
ness Du Maurier pulled her to him and
covered her face and throat with kisses.
She clung to him as if for protection
against some outer force. She felt that
thev must stand together against a hos-
tile world. She was afraid that some-
how he would fail her.

“Oh Isabel, Isabel,” he whispered,
over and over. And the quickness of his
breath made the words into sobs.

Then the door was wrenched open from
within and Cecil stood upon the thres-

h °Hand in hand, like a pair of truant
school-children, Du Maurier and Isabel
faced her, and felt foolish. Isabel broke

^ “Don’t give us such a dirty look,” she
sa : d, with an attempted fliPP'ancy. We
have the license with us, and then, b-
fore Cecil could reply, she saw bhe white-
robed nurse come from her fathei s
room, and knew why Cecil’s face was
like a mask of tragedy.

Never before had Isabel been face to
face with death. What was it Adrian
had said so long ago?” “A for a

lover.” And now the leopard, omen of
misfortune, had its pi^y*

Schleeel and Carroway had gone
leaving ^the suaver person of McDonald
take charge. He took Isabel kind >
bv the hand. “Your father wants to see
vou We think this wish is what has
ipni him going. You must be prepared

to see him suffering and greatly changed.

Up o’hd that it will soon be ovei.

Dumbly, and walking like a figure
made of wood, Isabel followed the doctor
into Captain Rayburns room.

The shades were drawn, and to Isabel
the body in the bed was no more than a
heap of covers. She attempted desper-

Catiadian Railroader, Montreal

ately to realize that this thing was -he.
father . . . her father.

“Is — a — bel!” said her father’s voice.
“W — welcome.”

She dropped beside him, bending close,
feeling unwilling tears pursue their
course upon her cheek. “Oh, pupaw,
pupaw! What can I say? It’s all my
fault.”

“S — say — it again.”

When she had repeated her words dis-
tinctly, “B — bloody nonsense,” Adrian
mumbled. “Can’t sm — mile for obvious
re — reasons, but would if I c — c — could.
We b — both get what we want. Y — you,
a man; I, a g — g — grave.” There was a
pause. “Don’t c — c— cry, d — d — damn-
ed little fool,” he commanded. “The
g — g — game’s up. Be a s — sport. Give
the 1 — 1 — 1 — leopard its due. Are you
m — m — married legally, or o — o — only
t — technically?”

“I’m not married, pupaw. We got the
license first, but oh, pupaw, don’t be so
kind and forgiving when I’ve as much as
killed you.”

“Im’n not k — kind. I’ll m — malicious.”
Isabel tried to speak; found herself
sobbing.

“Sh — shut up, will you, don’t waste
t— t— time. Get D — d — d — . W— what
is his n — n — n — name?” Adrian finally
resumed. “D— d— du M—m— maurier?”

“Not really, pupaw,” whispered Isabel.
“It’s Madden. He writes. He’s been liv-
ing under the other name to keep away
from his family’s friends or something.
It’s a long story.”

“Well, d — d— don’t t — t — t — tell it.
Send him to g— g— get a m—m— minis-
ter. I’ll see you m — m — married, by

God, before ” Here another spasm

of coughing interrupted him.

Isabel explained: “He’s a Catholic,
pupaw. He wants to be married by a

priest.” , _ ,

“A priest? B — b — better and better.
Let him f— fetch his priest. P— ] p—] p—
perform c — c — ceremony by b — b bed-
side of d — dying — even a p—p— priest
will come for that.” T

Isabel, wondering that her shaKing
legs could bear her, reached the door.

“Bless you, my d — d — daughter,
Adrian called after her. “You’ll s — send
me out like a b — b — bubble, in a b b

burst of glory.”

* * *

Du Maurier found Father Corcoran in
a meek little church on West Forty-fifth
Street. The priest was a frail old gen-
tleman, but tall and still erect.

“Well, Dick,” he said, in a smooth, soft
still perfectly modulated voice, “what
have you done this time?”

“I am about to be married, said Du
Maurier. “And I’d like you to perform
the ceremony, Father.” And, suddenly,
he went on his knees before the priest
and, as he had not done since childhood,

told the truth. . , „

Afterwards, “It’s all very irregular,
said Father Corcoran sadly. “And you
have done a grave wrong. Yes,” he con-
cluded, rubbing a frail white hand over
his curly hair, “yes you must be married
at once. And since Miss Rayburn is
eager to embrace your faith, and since
her father is upon his deathbed, I think
a dispensation can be procured to pro-
ceed without the publication of the
banns, and to perform the ceremony at
Miss Rayburn’s home.”

So it was that a little after three on
that sunny afternoon Du Maurier and
Father Corcoran came to the studio.

('MV

^ Canadian Railroader , Montreal

f r ! “Pupaw,” said Isabel, “the priest has
* come.”

ip “G — g — good. T — tell him to d — d — do

v his stuff.”

CHAPTER XXV.

AS IT WAS WRITTEN.

The room was very still. There was
no light except the rays of sun that fil-
tered through the shades and lay across
the leopard skins upon the floor. Clear
as a bell the priests voice rang out.

“Richard, wilt thou take Isabel, here
present, for thy lawful husband?”

“I will,” Du Maurier said, evenly.

“H — h — he has to. He c — c — can’t
escape.”

Then the priest asked the woman :
“Isabel, wilt thou take Richard, here
present, tfor thy lawful husband?”

“S — s — superfluous qu — questions. Ac-
tions speak louder than w — w — words.”

“I will,” whispered Isabel.

Then she and Du Maurier joined their
right hands and, after the priest, Du
Maurier repeated: “I, Richard Lenox
Madden, take thee, Isabel Rayburn, for
my lawful wife, to have and to hold ”

“And p — p — probably deceive.”

“ from this day forward, for bet-

ter, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in
sickness and in health, until death do
us part.”

Then Isabel, also after the priest, said :
“I, Isabel Rayburn, take thee, Richard
Lenox Madden for my lawful husband,
to have and to hold, from this day for-
ward, for better, for worse, for richer,
for poorer, in sickness and in health, un-
til death do us part.”

“She’ll b — b — be an angel,” Adrian ob-
served. “She’s as p — p — patient as 'her
mother, whom, p — p — praise God, I’ll n —
n — never m — meet again.”

“By the authority committed to me,”
said the priest, “I pronounce you united
in the bonds of matrimony.”

Du Maurier then placed the gold ring,
which he had bought on his way to the
studio, upon the third finger of Isabel’s
left hand, and echoed: “With this ring I
thee wed, and I pl:’ght unto thee my
troth.”

Meanwhile, within the confines of his
inert body, Adrian strangled with heroic
laughter.

Isabel and Du Maurier stood by the
bed, and presently were joined by Cecil.
Arms folded on <his breast, the priest
waited behind them.

Now in a stronger voice, “Open the
w — w — window,” Adrian commanded.
“Let the b — b — beast come in. She’s
w — waited long enough.”

Cecil stepped to the window, and as
her shadow crossed the bed, a loud cry
broke from Adrian’s lips.

Instinctively Isabel put her hands over
her eyes. And when at last she took
them down, she saw Father Corcoran
making the sign of the cross over her
father’s body.

* * *

On a chilly night in May the Lenox
Maddens returned from dinner with
Cyril and Veronica. They were tired,
and the little apartment — once the home
of a bachelor called Du Maurier — seem-
ed a haven of rest. Achilles was there
to greet them, to bark, and snap at the
fur border of Isabel’s long black cape.

She laughed and gave it to her hus-
band. Then, going to the window, she
leaned far out between the blowing cur-
tains.

“Darling,” he begged, “you have a cold
now — you’ll get pneumonia — everybody’s
getting it.”

“Please, Dick, don’t be such an old
maid. Come and look at the stars.
There are trillions of them.”

“Shan’t do anything of the sort. I’ll
build a fire, that’s what I’ll do.” And he
suited the action to the word.

Isabel was looking well these days.
Her figure had fulfilled the promise of
alluring roundness; her mouth had lost
much of its former petulance; her eyes,
sadder and softer, since her father’s
death, as if the tragedy still lurked
within them, seemed also to have taken
on a deeper hue.

“You lovely thing,” he whispered.
Bending down, he kissed the white band
of flesh that showed between the ruby
bracelets. “You lovely, lovely little
animal . . .”

Later, when he was unfastening her
evening dress, “I’ve saved a surprise for
you,” he said. “We made a thousand
dollars today. The Post bought the
Stockbridge Potter story.”

“How splendid! That’s the second in
three months. We must phone Stock
and tell him. What is his number,
dear?”

“I don’t remember, but we’ll get it
from the Chequer Taxi Company.” And
they conjured up the rainy night when,
hunting for a taxi, they had almost col-
lapsed with amazement — when Potter
had hailed them from the driver’s seat
of an especially gaudy one.

“Mercy!” said Isabel, hugging her
husband. “How our old crowd has scat-
tered! What with Stock driving a taxi,
and Cecil in Europe, and your old flame”
— she loved to tease him about Susie —
“tied to the ‘coat kink.”

“Poor fellow!” groaned Dick. “I won-
der he hasn’t been drowned in tears, or
asphyxiated by alcohol fumes.”

“He seems to be bearing up. I sup-
pose Susie has to behave herself after
what he did for her father. And, after
all she’s a nice kid. I can’t very well
blame her for wanting you, can I?”

“Oh, hardly,” replied Dick, drawing
himself up to his full height, and puff-
ing out his chest. “I’m such a devilish
handsome fellow.”

“And so clever, too. Just think of it,
one thousand dollars for a story.”

“Oh, well, all that publicity about
Lenox Madden, the author, being Rich-
ard Du Maurier, the saphead, did me a
world of good. I hated it at the time,
but it turned out to be just so much free
advertising.”

He pulled down the black dress and
carefully kissed the vertebrae of her
spine in alphabetical order. “I’m going
to buy a ruby ring for my pretty little
wife.”

She frowned. “I’d rather have an-
other stone . . . perhaps a pearl,” she
said. “Anyway,” she added, “you’d bet-
ter wait until you do another novel.”
And she went into the alcove.

Slowly Dick removed his dinner jacket,
and, putting on a dressing gown, sat
opposite the fire.

December. 1926: Vol X., No. 4

“Wait until you do another novel,”
she had said. Another novel. He heard
it again and again from all directions.
Only that morning his friend the Crow
had called. “And what’s become of the
novel you promised us?” he had demand-
ed. “You ought to get it in now. You're
on the crest of the wave. Besides, you
told me three months ago that it was at
the typist’s.”

Du Maurier had muttered something
about changes, although he knew that it
lay quite untouched, locked in his desk.
Tempting and terrible it was; the book
of Isabel. For three months it had been
there, left because he could not find the
courage either to publish or destroy it.

He knew that it was good. He knew,
unquestionably, absolutely, that he could
not do better. When he thought of it
he grew hard and angry with despair.

He hated the book and he hated himself.
Sometimes he hated Isabel.

But now, when she came in her cream-
colored nightgown, with a loose embroid-
ered kimona over it, and curled herself
up on his lap, his heart seemed to con-
tract and ache like an open wound.

“Oh, Richard Du Maurier Lenox Mad-
den,” she said. “I’ve saved a surprise
for you, too.”

“What? A pleasant one, I hope.”

“Why, and I hope so too.” She clasp-
ed her hands behind his head and drew
it close to her. “Don’t buy me a ring,
Dick. You’d better save the money for
next year’s rent. We’ll have to get a
bigger place.” «

“Ye gods!” he cried. “Imagine you a
mother! You little imp, why didn’t you .
tell me before?”

“I wanted to be sure. I only saw the
doctor today, and — and — I wanted to be
sure of something else. Of you, Dick.

To be sure that you loved me.”

“My dear, I married you, and I’m a
Catholic, you know.”

“It wasn’t only that.” She clung to
him and smiled enigmatically. “I was a
brazen huzzy. I was a thief. I stole
the key and made — don’t say I didn’t —

I made you compromise me. You were
sweet and forgiving.”

“I knew about it all the time. I saw
you take the key.”

“I guessed as much. You never miss
anything, do you?” She dropped her
arms, and then relaxed against him,
rubbing her bare feet on his trousers.

“It was my piece de resistance, but after-
wards I was afraid — oh, frightfully
afraid. One day Andrea said: ‘Getting
a man is easy; any fool can do it. But
holding a man is quite another matter.’
But, Dick,” whispered Isabel. “You’ll
never write our story, will you? Never,
never, never?”

“Never, never, never,’ ihe repeated.

They sat there talking for a while, and
presently the talking stopped. And
presently he saw that Isabel was sleep-
ing.

Gently he carried her into the alcove,
laid her on the bed, and drew the cur-
tains. Then he came back, approached
the desk, unlocked the drawer, and, tak-
ing out the book of Isabel, looked at it
tenderly. When he had looked at it, he
threw it on the fire, and watched the
flames rise high for some brief seconds,
making the room suddenly lighter.

“Dick,” called Isabel, “Come in, I’m
lonely.”

END

> w -', VtinL-tlEStTZ

Internet Archive Audio

Featured

Top

Images

Featured

Top

Software

Featured

Top

Texts

Featured

Top

Video

Featured

Top

Mobile Apps

Browser Extensions

Archive-It Subscription

Save Page Now

Full text of "Canadian railroader"

See other formats